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"IN    AN    INSTANT    SHE   WAS    OUT   OF   THE    SADDLE    AND    BENDING    OVER 
THE    PROSTRATE    FIGURE."  (Page  261) 

From  the  drawing  by  Belmore  Browne. 


THE  SMITING  OF 
THE  ROCK 

A  TALE  OF  OREGON 


BY 

GEORGE  PALMER  PUTNAM 


"Ht  smote  the  rock — and  water  came  forth  abundantly.  " 

—Numbers  XX:  11. 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW     YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  IplS 
BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
Second  Impression 


This  edition  is  issued  under  arrangement  with  the  publishers 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


.Bancroft  Library 


DEDICATED  TO 
L.  M. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — DAVID  KENT,  HOMESEEKER    .         .  i 

II. — A  BISHOP  FROM  OREGON       .         .  n 

III.— CONCERNING  PIGS                  .        .  25 

IV. — ON  THE  ROAD  TO  FAREWELL  .         .  33 

V. — KENT  GETS  A  JOB          ...  42 

VI. — SUNDAY  AT  LITTLE  EGYPT       .        .  60 

VII. — HONEYMOONS,  PERFECT  AND  OTHER 
WISE      72 

VIII.— THE  HORSE  CAVE          ...  79 

IX. — "UNTIL THE  RESURRECTION"         .  86 

X. — ON  HEAVEN  AND  HELL           .         .  93 

XI. — THE  SETTLERS'  MEETING        .         .  97 

XII.— POOR  LITTLE  LUCY        .         .         .113 

XIII.— LOST  LAKE 120 

XIV. — NEWS  EXTRAORDINARY           .         .  130 

i 

XV. — ARRIVAL  UNEXPECTED   .        .        .  144 

XVI. — ACCIDENT  UNFORTUNATE        .         .  156 

XVII.— FIRST  AID  168 


vi  Contents 


PAGE 


XVIII. — A  CASUAL  QUESTION      .        V        .  176 

XIX. — KING  DAVID'S  QUEEN    .        V        •  187 

XX.— Pi        .         .         .                 7        .  198 

XXI. — CRETE  HAS  A  PLAN        .        7        .207 

XXII. — ON  THE  TRAIL,  AND  OFF         V        .  216 

XXIII.— THE  BRAIN  STORM         .         .         .  231 

XXIV. — LOST  AND  FOUND  ....  252 

XXV.— "ONLY  A  DRAW"  .         .        .        .  257 

XXVI. — NATURE  TAKES  A  HAND         .        .  274 

XXVII. — AT  THE  RANGER'S  CABIN        .         .  290 

XXVIII.— THE  TRIAL 304 

XXIX.— WELCOME  WATER          .        .         .  313 


THE  SMITING  OF  THE  ROCK 


The    Smiting   of   the    Rock 


CHAPTER  I 

DAVID  KENT,   HOMESEEKER 

A  MAY  morning  found  David  Kent  gazing  from 
his  window  as  the  train  moved  westward  along 
the  Oregon  bank  of  the  Columbia  River.  Beyond 
the  great  stream  rose  the  rounded  hills  of  Washing 
ton,  soft  as  velvet  in  the  sparkling  distance.  A 
breeze  flecked  the  water  cheerfully,  mountainous 
snowy  clouds  dragged  grotesque  shadows  across 
the  countryside,  and  overhead  a  sunny  blue  sky 
framed  the  broad  panorama. 

The  refreshing  spirit  of  this  pleasurable  outlook 
infused  the  traveler,  filling  him  with  carefree  con 
tent.  Just  then,  if  Chance  had  sought  to  make 
capital  of  his  optimistic  good  nature  he  might 
have  been  bent  to  almost  any  purpose.  But  Chance 
left  him  so  undisturbedly  drinking  in  the  visual 
magnificence  of  the  Columbia  country  that  shortly 
he  was  satiated  with  the  very  glory  of  it,  and 
sought  something  less  overwhelming  to  look  upon. 


2  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

From  his  pocket  he  extracted  a  much-handled 
map,  and  spreading  it  out  upon  his  knees,  for  the 
twentieth  time  delved  into  its  allurements. 

It  was  a  normal  folder,  with  the  United  States 
ironed  out  encouragingly  and  so  fashioned  that 
the  red-printed  route  of  the  railroad  whose  name 
it  bore  was  by  all  odds  the  straightest  and  shortest 
between  the  two  oceans.  Railroad  map  makers, 
he  mused,  long  since  discarded  the  copybook 
axiom  that  a  straight  line  is  the  shortest  dis 
tance  between  two  points,  substituting  there 
for  the  ukase  that  their  own  roads  must  always 
appear  as  the  shortest,  whatever  their  actual  in 
directions. 

What  most  interested  Kent,  however,  was  not 
the  ingenious  alignment  of  the  great  transconti 
nental,  but  a  blank  space  as  large  as  his  palm, 
right  there  in  Oregon,  across  whose  threshold  he 
had  just  come.  Not  a  single  railroad  appeared 
in  this  typeless  barren.  Nowhere  on  the  entire 
map  could  he  find  another  neglected  area  nearly 
so  large  as  this  one  into  which  a  plain-faced 
Bishop,  a  superlatively  pretty  girl,  and  a  hasty 
resolution  were  thrusting  him. 

A  dot  in  the  middle  of  the  white  space  bore  the 
title  "  Fare  well  Ford,"  and  had  for  companions 
two  isolated  lines  of  letters,  one  spelling  "  Desert " 
anct  the  other  "Timber." 

The  young  man's  finger  traced  the  route  he  was 
then  following  along  the  Columbia,  whence  a 
stubby  half -inch  of  railroad  reached  south  toward 


David  Kent,  Homeseeker  3 

Farewell  Ford,  ending  just  within  the  radius  of 
the  barren  void  at  a  dot  inscribed  "Shaniko." 

"Coin*  in?"  asked  the  conductor. 

"In  where?" 

"  Oh,  it's  new  to  you,  eh?  I  meant  up  yonder." 
An  official  thumb  indicated  regions  behind  the 
hills.  "Know  that  country  pretty  well.  How 
far  you  goin'?" 

Kent  indicated  his  ticket. 

"  Sure,  I  know  it  reads  Shaniko,  but  no  one  stops 
there  unless  it's  a  case  of  sudden  death." 

The  traveler  laughed. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"Yep.  Fact  is,  there's  only  one  place  worse'n 
Shaniko,  which  is  Biggs,  and  here  we  are  now." 

And  forthwith  the  Easterner,  still  pondering 
this  cheering  recommendation  of  Biggs,  was  de 
posited  in  its  midst  together  with  a  mail  sack  and 
his  own  trunk.  Sitting  on  the  latter,  he  leisurely 
took  stock  of  the  surroundings  as  the  train  deserted 
him. 

Between  the  tracks  and  cliffs  which  tumbled 
down  nearly  to  the  water's  edge,  was  Biggs  itself, 
nestling  hotly  among  soiled,  ruffled  dunes  of  sand. 

Single  story  buildings  occupied  one  side  of  the 
lonesome  street,  whose  corrugated  drifts  attested 
its  innocence  of  traffic.  At  each  end  of  the 
"block"  was  a  saloon,  efficiently  located  so  that 
it  was  impossible  to  come  or  go  without  running 
temptation ' s  gauntlet .  B ef ore  a  hotel  of  unpainted 
lumber  occupying  the  center  of  the  line,  a  white- 


4  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

aproned  individual  ding-donged  a  brazen  triangle 
by  way  of  urging  the  public  to  eat.  And  there 
were  several  erstwhile  pretentious  structures  with 
lofty  and  deceitful  clapboard  pompadours,  bear 
ing  faded  inscriptions  of  dealers  in  other  people's 
real  estate.  Bottles,  cans,  and  sundry  souvenirs 
of  hungers  and  thirsts  long  since  satisfied  fringed 
the  human  habitations. 

"Must  get  hot  in  summer,"  Kent  ventured  to 
the  agent,  who  came  for  the  mail  pouch. 

"Yep.  A  hundred  an'  ten  most  of  the  time. 
But  it's  better 'n  that," — accurately  winging  a 
congealed  eddy  with  an  excess  of  tobacco  juice, — 
"the  sand  makes  most  trouble.  When  it  breezes 
a  bit,  you've  gotter  wear  goggles,  and  when  she 
honest-ter-God  blows  you've  just  gotter  quit.11 

On  the  way  to  the  eating  place,  which  he  un- 
blushingly  recommended,  the  agent  recounted 
how  a  few  "reg'lar"  sandstorms  would  cut  down 
telephone  posts,  by  the  incessant  drive  of  the  sharp 
particles  against  the  wood. 

Shortly,  the  two-car  train  rattled  in  from  behind 
the  hills  and  by  the  time  it  was  headed  around 
on  the  "Y"  the  limited  from  the  West,  emerging 
from  a  cloud  of  dust  on  the  main  line,  stopped, 
deposited  a  handful  of  passengers,  and  again  sped 
on  its  way.  The  human  deposit  included  two 
drummers,  a  rancher,  an  individual  with  a  glass 
eye,  and  a  young  lady.  The  four  men  sprinted  to 
the  food  dispensary,  where  one  of  the  drummers, 
greeting  the  proprietor  with  cordial  profanity, 


David  Kent,  Homeseeker  5 

hoped  that  "Charley  wouldn't  pull  out  till  they 
stowed  some  hash." 

"  Charley, "  who  was  the  conductor  of  the  Shan- 
iko  train,  showed  more  gallantry  than  the  herd 
at  the  trough. 

"Beg  pardon,  Miss,  but  there's  ten  minutes  to 
get  a  bite  to  eat,  if  you  wish." 

The  lone  young  lady,  so  addressed,  assured 
Charley  that  she  would  go  without.  "I'm  not 
hungry,"  she  added,  smiling  thanks  for  his  in 
terest. 

Kent,  overhearing,  all  at  once  felt  sure  that  it 
was  not  lack  of  appetite  but  disinclination  to  brave 
the  rigors  of  the  eating  house  that  kept  the  girl 
from  luncheon.  So  forthwith  he  found  himself 
exchanging  cash  for  jet  coffee  in  a  cup  and  mega- 
lithic  ham  sandwiches  in  a  flyspecked  paper 
bag. 

"Waste  of  time,  my  frien',"  proffered  a  fishy- 
eyed  drummer  between  mouthfuls.  "She  won't 
thaw.  I've  tried." 

Despite  the  pessimistic  counsel,  the  young  man 
plowed  back  through  the  sand  to  the  depot,  to 
find  that  the  girl  was  already  on  the  Shaniko  train. 
So  he  climbed  aboard,  balancing  the  coffee,  now 
rather  worse  than  lukewarm,  and  commencing  to 
feel  foolishly  self-conscious  after  the  fashion  of 
mankind  detected  in  chivalry. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  .  .  .  won't  you  please 
take  these?"  He  was  standing  in  front  of  her. 
"I  thought  you  were  .  .  .  hm  .  .  .  that  is,  of 


6  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

course,  you  couldn't  go  up  to  that  hole  so  I  took 
the  liberty  of  ...  "his  embarrassment  got  the 
better  of  him,  and  further  words  balked. 

There  is  no  slightest  doubt  that  if  the  worldly 
drummer  had  laid  a  luxurious  repast  upon  the 
altar  of  acquaintanceship,  the  result  would  have 
been  disaster — to  the  drummer.  But  Kent's 
worldliness  was  somehow  of  a  different  world. 
The  blue  eyes  appraised  the  knight  of  the  coffee 
cup  evenly.  Evidently  they  were  satisfied  with 
what  they  saw,  as  forthwith  the  drummer  who 
said  there  was  no  thawing  was  proved  a  liar. 

"It's  good  of  you.  I  really  might  have  starved 
to  death." 

There  was  no  affectation  in  that  spontaneous 
smile  with  its  array  of  white  teeth,  and  Kent, 
who  hitherto  had  noticed  next  to  nothing  about 
the  girl,  found  himself  wondering  if  perhaps  her 
"curly"  upper  lip  might  be  a  trifle  too  short. 
Certainly  her  teeth  were  square  and  firm,  for  a 

woman;  and  her  chin,  that  too 

"How  can  we  get  the  cup  back?"     The  coffee 
gone,  the  housewifely  problem  at  once  struck  her. 
"Throw  it  away !     It's  paid  for." 
"Which  reminds  me — how  much  was  it  all?" 
"Nothing.     You  see  they  gave  it  to  me!" 
But  the  fib  availed  not  at  all  against  the  in 
sistence  of  the  blue-eyed  girl  who  had  no  slightest 
intention  of  permitting  chance  young  men — even 
if  they  were  respectful — to  pay  for  her  meals. 
Finally  he  said,  "A  quarter." 


David  Kent,  Homeseeker  7 

''Two  bits,"  she  corrected,  and  forced  his  ac 
ceptance  of  the  coin.  "Thank  you,  again." 

With  that  she  began  to  study  the  country,  and 
Kent  took  the  hint.  Looking  back  from  the 
smoking  car  the  drummer  grinned  and  went 
through  the  pantomime  of  shaking  his  own  hand 
in  congratulation. 

"Dirty  beast,"  thought  Kent,  and  succeeded 
in  concentrating  most  of  his.  attention  on  the 
landscape. 

For  an  hour  the  diminutive  train  panted  up 
oppressive  grades,  the  track  meandering  through 
crooked  canyons  and  along  gullies  where  winter 
rain  had  washed  away  the  adobe,  leaving  brick- 
colored  chasms  and  piles  of  rounded  rock.  Stunted 
sagebrush  and  chemise  clothed  the  hillsides 
scantily,  and  trails  of  cattle  serried  every  slope, 
as  evenly  as  the  contour  lines  on  a  map.  Then, 
the  rim  of  the  Columbia's  hills  reached,  the  train 
rattled  southward  with  more  directness  and  some 
pretense  of  speed,  across  a  rolling  plateau  of 
stubblefields,  golden  with  wheat  at  harvest  time, 
but  at  that  season  richly  toned  with  browns  and 
wakening  green.  Ranch  houses  and  little  towns 
alone  broke  the  pleasant  monotony  of  the  wide 
country.  Beyond  the  drab  foreground  and  the 
blue  haziness  of  the  middle  distance,  the  Cas 
cade  mountains  silhouetted  against  the  western 
sky,  with  Mount  Hood,  cloaked  in  the  white  of 
everlasting  snow,  marshaling  an  array  of  lesser 
peaks. 


8  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on  Kent  devoted  himself 
to  a  cumulative  letter  which  had  commenced 
east  of  Chicago  and  was  to  be  mailed  nowhere 
short  of  Oregon.  The  autobiographic  narrative 
reached  Biggs  and  the  hungry  girl  simultaneously, 
and  somehow  there  hung  fire. 

Consideration  of  that  incident  brought  a  smile  to 
the  idling  author.  Could  one  imagine  his  lady 
accepting  provender  from  a  total  stranger?  One 
could  not.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  very  idea  of 
aristocratic  Valentine  being  either  unescorted  or 
hungry  was  untenable.  So,  dismissing  the  un 
likely  comparison  from  his  mind,  for  lack  of  better 
ammunition  he  tore  the  map  from  the  folder, 
sketched  himself  racing  across  the  fruitless  bar 
ren  toward  Farewell  Ford,  and  placed  his  artistic 
effort  with  the  corpulent  letter  in  an  envelope. 

Looking  up  from  his  accomplished  task,  Kent's 
eyes  encountered  those  of  the  erstwhile  hungry 
girl,  unexpectedly  enough  to  surprise  an  amused 
twinkle.  Immediately  the  observer's  eyes  re 
treated  to  her  magazine,  leaving  Kent  resentfully 
aware  that  he  was  blushing  unreasonably. 

As  they  neared  Shaniko  the  drummers,  with  the 
hope  of  making  up  an  automobile  load,  inquired 
his  destination. 

"Farewell.  But  let's  leave  plans  until  we  get 
there."  Having  no  alternative,  they  agreed. 

"Will  you  go  through  to-night?" 

The  girl's  question  followed  the  exit  of  the 
drummers. 


David  Kent,  Homeseekcr  9 

"I  really  don't  know.  You  see,  it's  all  new  to 
me.  What  does  one  do,  anyway?" 

"There's  the  choice  of  stage  or  automobile," 
she  replied.  "The  autos  are  new  on  the  run, 
and  of  course  cost  more.  The  stage  starts  to-night, 
and  the  auto  leaves  in  the  morning.  Both  of  them 
get  to  Farewell  about  the  same  time  to-morrow 
evening." 

"It's  a  case  of  riding  all  night  on  the  stage, 
then?" 

"Oh,  yes.  It's  really  not  as  bad  as  it  sounds — 
quite  fun,  in  fact,  if  you  like  that  sort  of  thing." 
She  was  talking  very  easily  now. 

"  You  do,  I  suppose."  He  had  hit  upon  the 
shade  of  her  eyes — cornflower  blue. 

"Yes,  I  really  do,  in  a  way,"  she  seemed  to 
ponder  the  matter.  "And  then  this  is  the  longest 
stage  ride  left,  I  believe,  and  it's  somehow  rather 
bully  to  get  this  last  taste  of  what  used  to  be  every 
where  in  the  West.  But,  of  course,  it's  awfully 
tiring,  and  the  dust  is  getting  bad  again  now." 

Dust!  That  was  it;  gold  with  dust  over  it — 
the  very  fittest  description  of  her  hair,  thought 
Kent,  who  had  a  habit  of  wording  ideas. 

"  I'm  going  to  Farewell,  too, "  the  girl  continued. 
"The  auto  fare  is  twenty  dollars  and  the  stage 
ten,  so  of  course  I  go  by  stage." 

"Of  course,"  Kent's  echo  quite  surprised  him. 

When  the  girl  spoke  of  the  auto  he  had  decided 
on  it  quite  automatically.  Now,  however,  the 
unaccustomed  consideration  of  cost  was  leveled 


io          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

full  in  his  face  by  a  young  lady  who  made  nothing 
heroic  of  choosing  an  all-night  ride  in  preference 
to  a  ten-dollar  extravagance. 

"Money  is  very  scarce  in  a  new  country,"  the 
girl  offered. 

"And  other  places,  too.  The  auto  fare  does 
seem  horribly  high  .  .  .  quite  out  of  sight  for  a 
poor" — he  fumbled  for  a  word,  and  found  one — 
"homeseeker.  The  stage  for  me — of  course." 

For  the  remainder  of  the  journey  the  volunteer 
homeseeker  furtively  clasped  the  letter  he  had 
written  while  his  mind  wandered  far  away  whither 
that  letter  was  to  go. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  BISHOP  FROM  OREGON 

IN  retrospect,  as  the  train  bore  him  nearer 
Shaniko,  David  Kent  recalled  the  events  which 
had  embarked  him  on  his  present  quest.  The 
commencement  of  it  all,  he  remembered  well, 
dated  from  a  dinner  at  the  home  of  Mrs.  Alton 
Pennoyer,  mother  of  the  girl  to  whom  his  first 
Oregon  letter  had  just  been  addressed. 

But  behind  that  dinner,  and  as  such  the  actual 
key  to  the  entire  adventure,  lay  a  newspaper 
article  which  had  signaled  the  social  unearthing, 
or  at  least  rehabilitation,  of  a  certain  missionary 
Prelate  of  the  West. 

"OREGON  BISHOP  BACK  FROM  FRONTIER  THRILLS 
NEW  YORK  AUDIENCE7' 

was  the  heading  which  caught  the  attention  of 
Mrs.  Pennoyer  as  she  glanced  through  her  paper 
one  April  morning. 

"The  address  of  the  Right  Rev.  Robert  Rudd, 
Bishop  of  Eastern  Oregon,  was  the  principal 
feature  of  yesterday's  session  of  the  National 

ii 


12          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Settlement  Workers  Association.  Bishop  Rudd, 
who  at  one  time  was  himself  prominent  in  local 
settlement  activity,  has  for  several  years  been 
engaged  in  what  is  practically  missionary  work  in 
a  far  western  territory  aptly  described  by  him  as 
'the  largest  railroadless  area  in  the  United  States/ 
With  his  strong  personality,  unique  experiences, 
and  decidedly  advanced  theories,  this  militant 
worker  from  the  West  created  something  of  a 
furore." 

Mrs.  Pennoyer  read  no  further.  That  first 
paragraph  was  enough.  For  she  had  known  Rob 
ert  Rudd's  "people,"  and  the  Bishop  of  to-day, 
in  the  yesterday  of  knickerbockers,  had  more  than 
once  encountered  her  disapproval  with  his  full- 
blooded  pranks. 

"Val,  do  you  remember  Robert  Rudd?"  said 
Mrs.  Pennoyer  to  her  daughter,  whose  entrance 
coincided  with  the  enveloping  of  a  note  to  Rudd 
himself. 

It  required  close  to  six  seconds  of  concentration 
— which  became  her  very  prettily — for  Valentine 
to  rescue  the  memory  of  Bob  Rudd  from  a  brain 
stocked  with  recollections  of  many  males. 

"Yes,  Mummsie,  I  remember — quite  well. 
He  was  awfully  ugly  and  awfully  nice.  What 
about  him?" 

"He  is  a  Bishop  now." 

And  Mrs.  Pennoyer,  handing  her  daughter  the 
envelope  which  she  had  just  addressed,  explained 
that  she  was  asking  the  Bishop  to  dinner,  which 


A  Bishop  from  Oregon  13 

surprised  Valentine  not  at  all  as  her  mother  was 
constantly  on  the  alert  for  itinerant  lions  who 
might  be  induced  to  roar  acceptably  as  her  guests. 

"You  are  going  out,  I  see,  so  please  mail 
it.  And  Val, — "  Mrs.  Pennoyer's  hesitancy  be 
trayed  her  half -certainty  of  the  answer  even  before 
she  put  the  question," — where  are  you  going?" 

"Oh,  just  out!" 

"  My  dear — ,"  Mrs.  Pennoyer  cleared  her  throat. 
"My  dear — "  then,  rather  lamely  " — please  sit 
down." 

Being  a  young  lady  of  decision,  Valentine  took 
the  conversational  bull  by  the  horns. 

"Please,  Mummsie,  listen.  You're  right.  I 
am  going  walking  with  Mr.  Kent.  I  think  I  like 
him  very  much,  but  I  haven't  the  least  idea  of 
marrying  him." 

"  Girls  never  have."  The  abrupt  onslaught  left 
Mrs.  Pennoyer  just  enough  breath  and  brains  to 
slip  that  in — it  was  the  very  best  she  could  do. 
Valentine  laughed,  all  at  once  quite  enjoying  the 
shift  of  affairs.  Spurred  by  spring  morn  madness, 
she  raced  on. 

"If  you're  anxious  for  the  news,  Da — that  is, 
Mr.  Kent  wants  to  marry  me,  and  I  told  him 
.  .  .  "  a  dramatic  pause  evidenced  Valentine's 
appreciation  of  the  value  of  suspense  "...  that 
I  would  let  him  know  .  .  .  after  a  while." 

Again  a  halt. 

"So  this  morning  I  am  going  to  give  him  my 
decision — isn't  it  mean,  Mummsie,  that  there 


14          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

is  always  something  to  be  decided?  I  loathe 
decisions."  Pause  number  three.  "Shall  I  tell 
you?" 

Mrs.  Pennoyer  gasped,  but  contrived  to  nod. 

"Well,  Mummsie,  I  am  not  going  to  marry 
him  .  .  .  yet!" 

The  corners  of  the  mother's  mouth  trembled. 

"Listen,  Mummsie."  Now,  it  was  the  little 
girl  recounting  her  troubles,  and  no  longer  the 
clever  debutante  playing  hide-and-go-seek  with 
a  distressed  parent.  "There  really  isn't  anything 
to  tell.  I  like  David — a  lot.  But  I  haven't  the 
slightest  idea  whether  I  really  love  him.  I 
know  you  and  Dads  don't  approve  and  ..." 

"Not  that  either,  my  dear,"  her  mother  inter 
rupted.  "We  like  Mr.  Kent  well  enough.  I  am 
sure  he  is  a  very  worthy  young  man.  .  .  .  ' 

"Well,  then,  it's  money.  Oh,  yes  it  is !  No  use 
pretending.  He's  acceptable  as  a  guest,  but 
you'd  not  urge  him  as  a  son-in-law.  I  know. 
Haven't  I  heard  Dads  thresh  it  all  out?  'A 
pleasant  fellow,  but  one  who  doesn't  seem  to  get 
anywhere, '  is  the  way  Dads  catalogues  him.  '  My 
only  daughter  must  marry  a  leader,  a  man  who 
does  things.'  Oh  glory,  I  know  it  by  heart! 
Jerry  Whitemore  is  eligible;  he's  'successful' — 
a  broker — what  David  calls  a  gentleman  gambler. 
Then  there's  that  little  peanut  Forsythe:  a  born 
diplomat,  Dads  calls  him,  and  perhaps  it's  true 
he  can't  help  being  a  big  Ambassador  or  some- 
thing-or-other  some  day.  Imagine  Mrs.  Gail  For- 


A  Bishop  from  Oregon  15 

sythe — "  She  pursed  her  lips  tastefully  over  the 
experimental  phrase. 

"His  family,  Valentine " 

"Lordy,  yes,  I  know!  it's  older  than  a  Swiss 
cheese,  and  no  member  of  the  illustrious  tribe 
ever  did  anything  to  be  ashamed  of  since  leaving 
the  Ark,  unless  you  count  marrying  for  money!" 

The  conversation  just  then  was  punctuated  by 
the  discreet  cough  of  the  superbly  discreet  butler 
bearing  the  card  of  Mr.  David  Kent. 

Valentine  ordained  she  would  "be  there  in  a 
minute,"  and  then  took  five  rearranging  details 
of  her  personal  appearance,  which,  judging  from 
its  nicety,  seemingly  already  had  been  brought  to  a 
state  of  perfection. 

Completing  her  leisurely  devotions  at  the 
shrine  of  beauty,  she  abandoned  the  mirror, 
regained  her  gloves  and  the  Bishop's  invitation, 
and  smiled  like  a  sunrise. 

"Don't  worry,  Mummsie.  Remember,  I  am 
practical. ' '  With  that  enigmatical  farewell,  Youth 
sought  waiting  Man,  leaving  Middle  Age  sighing 
concernedly. 

"Well,  I'll  do  what  I  want  anyway."  The 
daughter  unburdened  herself  of  this  very  probable 
axiom  as  she  approached  the  library  and  her 
suitor.  "Only  what  do  I  want  to  do?" 

The  plan  to  make  Bishop  Rudd  the  social  piece 
de  resistance  of  a  considerable  gathering  did  not 
materialize,  for  the  answer  to  Mrs.  Pennoyer's 
invitation  was  politely  determined  in  its  regret- 


16          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

fulness.  Acceptance  was  impossible,  it  appeared, 
because  the  Bishop  was  to  deliver  an  address 
upon  the  opportunities  of  the  West  before  a  remote 
organization  of  which  his  would-be  hostess  had 
never  heard. 

The  upshot  was  that  Bishop  Robert  Rudd  and 
David  Kent  were  the  sole  guests  at  what  their 
hostess  called  a  "simple  family  dinner/'  which, 
to  accommodate  the  Bishop's  appointment,  com 
menced  and  ended  early. 

At  the  outset  of  the  meal  Mrs.  Pennoyer  per 
sonally  conducted  the  conversation,  drawing  from 
her  guest  tales  of  his  frontier  experiences.  But 
while  the  Bishop's  reminiscences  came  freely 
enough,  the  personal  element  in  them  was  dis 
appointingly  subdued.  It  was  not  of  himself  and 
his  deeds  which  he  cared  to  talk,  but  of  the  big 
half -tamed  country  where  his  work  held  him.  Of 
that,  and  its  people,  he  enthused  with  heartfelt 
warmth. 

"That's  all  extremely  interesting,  Bishop,  but 
honestly  now,"  Miss  Pennoyer  smiled  daz- 
zlingly,  "wouldn't  it  be  nicer  back  here  where 
things  are  .  .  .  well,  where  everything  is  more 
comfortable  .  .  .  and  cultured?" 

The  exponent  of  Western  enthusiasm  regarded 
her  gravely. 

"  I  dare  say  it  would  be  nicer, "  he  replied  dryly. 

"But  Bishop,"  Kent  sought  to  give  the  con 
versation  a  safer  turn,  "do  you  really  believe  that 
West  of  yours  is  a  better  country  than  this?  " 


A  Bishop  from  Oregon  17 

"No  .  .  .  it's  worse!" 

"  Is  that  why  you  like  it  ?  "  Kent  laughed. 

"Or  is  it  the  necessity  of  reforming  it  that 
appeals  to  you?"  added  Miss  Pennoyer. 

"Neither  .  .  .  and  both.  I  went  out  there 
prejudiced  against  the  West  and  I've  come  back 
prejudiced  in  its  favor.  It's  a  very  virulent  dis 
ease,  this  love  of  the  country,  I  assure  you  .  .  . 
and  highly  contagious.  So  far  as  reforming  goes, 
I  hope  to  Heaven  it  may  never  be  reformed  .  .  . 
there's  lots  more  need  for  reformation  right  here 
in  New  York.  Anyway,"  he  chuckled  at  some 
recollection,  "the  only  really  sophisticated  sinning 
we  have  is  imported  ...  by  Easterners !  Where 
there's  plently  of  out-of-doors  and  sky  and  moun 
tains  the  misdeeds  of  men  aren't  very  reprehen 
sible.  They're  apt  to  be  primal  and  rather  clean 
and  big  .  .  .  almost  commendable,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean." 

Kent  thought  he  knew.  In  fact,  the  more 
he  heard  this  Bishop  talk — and  his  outlook  on 
life  seemed  extraordinarily  unbishoply — the  more 
warmly  rekindled  his  old  admiration,  taking 
him  back  to  the  time  when  he,  a  schoolboy,  had 
idolized  Rudd,  the  college  man,  heroically  return 
ing  home  between  terms.  By  the  time  dinner 
was  over,  a  half  resolve  had  formed  in  the  young 
man's  mind. 

Shortly,  and  somewhat  to  his  own  surprise, 
Kent  was  unburdening  himself  to  the  Bishop. 
He  was  dissatisfied  with  his  life,  its  idleness  and 


i8          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

lack  of  purpose.  He  wanted  to  make  good,  to  do 
something  on  his  own  initiative,  somehow,  some 
where.  That  he  made  clear,  and  intentionally. 
He  also  made  reasonably  clear,  although  without 
intention,  that  some  compelling  reason  had  lately 
arisen  for  this  new  and  creditable  resolve.  And 
the  Bishop,  in  his  wisdom,  and  glancing  casually 
in  the  direction  of  Valentine  Pennoyer,  gleaned 
a  far  better  comprehension  of  the  situation  than 
his  companion  imagined. 

"Your  trouble,  old  chap,  is  that  you've  been 
boiling  long  enough  .  .  .  you  need  to  jell  now," 
said  the  Bishop. 

"Jell?" 

"Exactly.  Ever  see  a  New  England  cook 
make  jelly?  Remember  what  fine  firm  material 
comes  from  the  restless  mass  in  the  kettle  .  .  . 
after  it's  boiled  enough  and  got  a  chance  to  settle 
down?" 

Kent  laughed  aloud. 

"Jell  .  .  .  that's  just  the  word!  I  need  to 
jell.  But  do  you  suppose  I've  been  on  the  stove 
too  long?" 

The  Bishop  eyed  him  squarely.  "No,"  said 
he. 

"Long  enough?" 

"That's  hard  to  say.  Each  brand  requires  a 
different  recipe.  Possibly  you'd  better  stew  for  a 
time  at  a  lower  temperature,  or  have  some  new 
ingredients  added." 

"Or  try  a  new  stove?" 


A  Bishop  from  Oregon  19 

"Perhaps.  However,  my  observation  is  that 
it's  the  cook  which  counts  most  ...  a  good 
cook  can  get  results  anywhere.  And  of  course 
you  realize" — the  little  Bishop's  deep-set  eyes 
twinkled  behind  their  thick  lenses — "that  girls 
make  the  best  cooks!" 

Just  then  Miss  Pennoyer  joined  them. 

"What  is  all  this  confab?  "  she  asked. 

"We've  been  discussing  cooking  .  .  .  and 
cooks." 

"A  deadly  dull  text,  I'm  sure." 

"We  were  especially  concerned  with  jelly," 
he  added,  to  her  further  mystification.  "Don't 
you  find  men  who  have  'jelled*  the  most  worth 
while?" 

But  Miss  Pennoyer  was  spared  the  exertion  of 
further  progress  along  this  conversational  byway 
through  the  advent  of  her  mother,  who  sallied 
forth  into  the  outer  hall,  where  they  stood,  to 
speed  the  parting  guest  with  additional  farewell. 

"And  David,"  the  Bishop  shook  Kent's  hand 
as  they  parted  on  the  steps,  "if  you  do  want  to 
try  transplanting  for  a  while,  remember,  Oregon's 
the  place.  You'd  never  regret  it." 

The  little  Bishop  swung  off  down  the  sidewalk 
to  his  meeting  of  lowly  young  men  concerned 
with  occidental  opportunities,  and  David  Kent 
returned  to  the  sumptuous  Pennoyer  drawing- 
room,  with  a  plan  formulating  within  him. 

"  If  I  make  good  will  that  settle  the  matter?"  he 
said  to  Valentine  later. 


20        [  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Oh,  David,  don't  be  silly!  Things  like  .  .  . 
like  getting  married  aren't  settled  that  way.  ..." 

"Well,  how  is  it  done,  then?"  He  took  her 
two  hands  in  his,  forcing  her  to  regard  him,  and 
the  issue,  squarely.  "You  said  only  yesterday 
you  loved  me  and  the  only  reason  you'd  not 
promise  was  because  I  didn't  seem  to  be  steady 
...  to  know  what  I  meant  to  do.  And  your 
father  ...  oh  yes,  I  know  all  about  that — "  he 
smothered  her  protest — "  he  throws  a  fit  on  the 
floor  whenever  I'm  considered  as  a  possible  son- 
in-law.  Now,  isn't  that  true  ?" 

She  nodded,  with  a  challenging  smile.  It  was 
true  enough,  and  she  knew  it. 

"Dads  won't  have  me  marry  a  failure  .  .  . 
and  I  don't  want  to.  I'd  ...  like  to  have  you 
succeed,  David." 

"That's  very  businesslike  and  practical,"  he 
replied  good-humoredly.  "You  see,  Val,  I  don't 
blame  your  father  ...  at  least  I  won't  hold  it 
against  him!  And  while  it's  inconvenient,  it's 
reasonable  enough  for  you  to  want  me  to  try  my 
hand  at  something  beside  spending  my  modest 
income.  So  I've  a  business  proposition  to  make 
to  you  .  .  .  it's  a  bit  out  of  the  ordinary  and 
entirely  unromantic,  I  suppose." 

"Well?  "said  she. 

If  Valentine  Pennoyer  had  been  a  shade  less 
beautiful,  and  the  spell  she  had  cast  over  David 
Kent  a  shade  less  irresistible,  the  coolly  selfish, 
passionless  poise  of  her  might  well  have  shattered 


A  Bishop  from  Oregon  21 

his  quixotic  notions  and  the  yearning  warmth 
beneath  them.  But  the  young  man  was  too 
much  in  love  for  critical  appraisement. 

"  Bishop  Rudd  made  a  great  hit  with  me  .  .  . 
also  Oregon,  as  he  describes  it.  Right  now,  I 
suppose,  he's  telling  about  those  'opportunities 
for  young  men '  out  there.  Well,  Val,  I'm  one  of 
the  young  men  who  intends  starting  a  still  hunt 
for  success  out  Oregon  way,  provided  only" — 
he  paused  impressively — "it's  distinctly  worth 
while." 

"How  about  me?"  Valentine's  words  echoed 
her  first  thought. 

"That's  just  the  point.  You're  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  it  all.  I'm  going  out  there  to  show 
you  I  can  make  good.  And  if  I  do,"  this  time 
he  loosed  one  hand  to  raise  her  chin  so  he  could 
look  into  her  eyes,  "will  you  promise  to  marry 
me?" 

"Making  good,"  she  parried,  "is  so  much  a 
matter  of  comparisons." 

"All  right,  then.  I'll  leave  the  deciding  to 
you  .  .  .  and  your  practical  father.  And  no 
promises  asked.  Only  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm 
going  to  do.  Just  as  soon  as  possible  I  start 
for  that  country  the  Bishop  raves  about.  .  .  . 
Farewell's  the  name  of  the  town.  I'll  need  some 
steers  from  him  as  to  how  to  get  there,  and  aside 
from  that  I'll  not  discuss  the  matter  with  a  soul. 
I  won't  even  take  any  money  .  .  .  just  enough 
to  land  me  there.  What  else  I  have  I'll  tuck 


72          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

away  where  it  won't  be  touched.  We're  to  play 
this  little  game  for  a  year,  Val  .  .  .  does  that 
suit?" 

"You  mean  you'll  stay  away  a  year?  Oh, 
David!  .  .  .  " 

"Not  necessarily.  But  I'm  going  to  put  in 
twelve  months  absolutely  on  my  own  resources. 
I'll  start  on  the  dead  level  when  I  get  out  there 
.  .  .  broke.  I  may  be  still  broke  when  the 
year's  over  but  at  least  I'll  manage  to  get  through 
it  and  show  your  estimable  parent  I  can  support 
myself." 

Valentine  smiled  as  he  unfolded  his  plan.  And 
beneath  the  smile  was  a  sense  of  genuine  satis 
faction.  The  novelty,  the  unique  practicability 
of  it,  pleased  her. 

"No  cheating?"  she  chided. 

"  None.  The  game's  to  be  played  square.  And, 
Val  ...  I  thought  first  I'd  ask  you  to  make  a 
bargain  ...  a  promise.  Perhaps  that  wouldn't 
be  fair.  But  if  this  is  to  be  an  honest-to-goodness 
business  deal,  why,  I  ought  to  have  .  .  .  well, 
say  an  option." 

"What's  [that?  ...  it  sounds  depressingly 
legal." 

"It's  a  sort  of  testimonial  of  prior  right,  I  guess. 
The  idea  is  that  Oregon  is  a  long  way  off  .  .  ." 

"You  chose  it,  not  I!" 

"True  enough.  But  even  at  that,  Val,  I'm 
going  into  this  party  for  you  ...  to  get  you 
anyway  .  .  .  and  it's  only  fair  my  .  .  .  ahem 


A  Bishop  from  Oregon  23 

.  .  .  rights  should  be  protected  in  my  absence.  I 
don't  want  .  .  .  well,  you  shouldn't  allow  any 
poaching." 

"  So  that's  it !  Shall  I  hang  a  '  No  Trespassing ' 
sign  around  my  neck?" 

He  assured  her  it  would  be  an  excellent  idea. 

"  David,  dear, "  she  announced  finally,  "it  strikes 
me  there  is  a  lot  of  nonsense  about  all  this  .  .  . 
it's  sort  of  ...  well,  storybookish  and  fanciful." 
She  frowned.  Romancing  held  little  appeal  for 
this  modern  princess. 

"And  yet, "  she  continued,  "it's  really  common- 
sense  and  reasonable.  It's  quite  true,  David,  that 
Dads  doesn't  enthuse  over  you  as  a  do-nothing. 
He's  always  been  a  doer  himself,  and  a  successful 
one,  and  it's  natural  he'd  have  little  respect  for  a 
man  who  has  never  .  .  .  well,  never  made  his 
own  way." 

"And  you  precious  near  share  the  paternal 
viewpoint, "  put  in  the  subject  of  the  appraisement, 
ruefully. 

"Yes,  to  a  degree  .  .  .  but  fortunately" — a 
delighting  smile  replaced  her  thoughtful  look 
— "fortunately  I  think  somewhat  more  of  you 
than  Dads  does  .  .  .  fortunately  for  you,  at 
least.  But  I  want  you  to  succeed,  David  .  .  . 
you  must  succeed.  .  .  .  No,  keep  away,  please! 

.  .  you  haven't  made  good  yet,  remember  .  .  . 
and  I  do  like  this  idea  of  yours,  even  with  all  its 
foolishness  .  .  .  it's  so  much  better  than  working 
around  in  a  circle,  the  way  we've  been  doing  for 


24         .The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

f 

so  long  now.  As  the  Bishop  says,  it  will  give  you  a 
chance  to  find  yourself  .  .  .  and  it  ought  to  let 
me  find  out  what  I  really  want,  too.  Of  course 
it's  a  gamble.  .  .  ." 

"Call  it  a  flier  in  success, "  he  interjected. 

"Or  failure.  Anyway,  Dads  says  even  a  good 
business  man  takes  a  flier  now  and  then.  So 
I'll  take  this  one,  David.  Yes,  I'll  agree  to 
keep  footfree  until  the  end  of  the  year.  I'll  try 
not  even  to  run  risks  of  getting  engaged.  And 
you're  to  live  up  to  the  rules  of  the  game  too  .  .  . 
go  out  there  all  on  your  own  hook  and  sink  or  swim 
without  calling  for  help.  That's  a  bargain." 

"  Honesttogod  "  said  Kent. 

They  shook  hands  quite  solemnly.  But  instead 
of  "releasing  her  hand  in  a  businesslike  manner, 
the  male  party  to  this  quixotic  contract  drew  the 
party  of  the  second  part  to  him,  abruptly  and 
strongly,  while  the  seal  was  affixed. 


CHAPTER  III 

CONCERNING  PIGS 

AT  the  Shaniko  hotel  a  chemically-blonded 
waitress  bawled  orders  for  beans,  ham,  and  coffee 
into  an  aperture  at  one  end  of  the  dining-room, 
whence  in  time  issued  the  culinary  products  ac 
companied  by  a  fragrance  not  exclusively  their 
own.  The  drummers  consumed  their  supper 
loudly.  The  girl  of  the  train  was  at  another 
table,  conversing  with  an  eager  little  man,  whom 
she  had  affectionately  greeted  as  "Dad."  In  the 
tooth-picking  lull,  following  pie,  when  everyone 
backed  up  against  the  stove  in  the  lobby,  Kent 
gleaned  from  the  clerk  that  the  little  man's  name 
was  Trumble. 

"Miss  Trumble,  eh?  At  least  I  know  some 
one  at  Farewell, "  he  thought. 

It  was  the  same  "Dad"  who  held  the  reins 
when  they  climbed  into  the  stage,  the  girl  tucked 
beside  him,  while  Kent  shared  the  inside  with  a 
horse  buyer  who  speedily  exhausted  the  contents 
of  a  pint  bottle  without  any  apparent  effects,  ill 
or  otherwise. 

^During  the  cold  night  Kent  slept  scarcely  at  all, 
25 


26          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

although  his  companion,  to  judge  by  his  snoring, 
contrived  considerable  slumber.  Another  mem 
ber  of  the  party  contributed  also  to  the  night 
revels.  This  one  was  a  small  pig  traveling  in  a 
crate  fastened  in  the  rear  beside  Kent's  trunk, 
sundry  boxes  of  California  fruit,  and  other  varie 
gated  cargo. 

Finally,  the  mud  and  rocks  of  Shaniko  Flats 
and  the  steep  grades  of  Cow  Canyon  were  negoti 
ated,  and  about  two  o'clock  the  stage  stopped. 

"What's  matter?"  The  horse  buyer  lurched 
into  wakefulness,  automatically  reaching  to  make 
sure  his  glass  eye  was  in  place. 

"Nothin'  special,  'cept  breakfast.  This  is 
Heisler's."  The  little  driver's  lantern  illuminated 
the  after  end  of  his  craft  with  a  glow  more  dim 
than  religious,  whereat  the  pig  resumed  his 
squealing.  " How's  all  the  live  stock  riding?'* 
The  query  was  addressed  indiscriminately  in  the 
direction  of  pig  and  passengers. 

The  two  men  got  out  stiffly  and  the  girl,  swing 
ing  down  from  her  seat,  wished  them  a  good 
morning. 

A  lantern  appeared  from  somewhere,  a  couple 
of  shadow  men  led  the  horses  off,  and  the  lower 
windows  of  a  house  close  at  hand  showed  golden 
squares  of  light. 

"Hello,  Dad ! "  a  woman's  voice  called.  "Back 
at  it,  eh?" 

"Yu  betcha.  S'like  old  times."  The  driver's 
cheery  voice  warmed  the  arctic  night.  All  at 


Concerning  Pigs  27 

once  not  coffee  and  a  stove  seemed  possible  attain 
ments  and  not  mirages  of  the  roadside. 

" Don't  forget  to  water  the  pig,  Dad,"  the  girl 
reminded,  as  she  went  to  the  house. 

"Ain't  that  just  like  her — never  forgets  noth 
ing";  the  driver's  friendly  voice  was  full  of 
admiration.  "Well,  suppose  it's  gotter  be  done 
— the  bygod  pig's  paying  first-class  fare  'n  must  be 
'tended."  With  a  sigh  of  good-natured  protest, 
Trumble,  placing  the  lantern  on  the  ground, 
fumbled  with  the  stiff  cords  binding  the  crate 
while  Kent  and  his  fellow  passenger  stamped 
some  semblance  of  warmth  into  their  feet. 

"Hey,  one  of  you,  help  me  here — quick!" 

But  succor  came  too  late.  In  the  dark  some 
thing  slipped  and  with  a  clatter  trunk,  fruit  boxes, 
and  crate  tumbled  over,  extinguishing  the  lantern 
and  knocking  Trumble  into  the  dust,  whence  a 
remarkable  offering  of  diversified  profanity  as 
cended.  The  light  crate  splintered  as  it  hit  the 
road,  and  the  panicky  porker  scuttled  away  into 
the  blackness. 

A  door  opened  and  the  girl's  voice  floated 
through  the  night. 

"  What  is  the  matter?" 

The  swearing  subsided. 

"  Nothin'.  Oh,  nothin'  at  all"  Withering  sar 
casm  was  in  that  announcement.  "'Ceptin' 
only" — a  laborious  grunt  as  the  little  man  gathered 
himself  up — "a  half  ton  lit  square  on  top  o'  me 
an' I'm  ...  all  ...  busted  .  .  .  up."  The  last 


28          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

words  came  with  the  deliberation  of  excessive 
suffering. 

"Not  really  hurt,  Dad?"  She  had  hurried  to 
his  side  through  the  blackness,  and  spoke  with 
tender  concern. 

"No — o,  reckon  I  ain't  .  .  .  ain't  dead,  any 
way."  The  admission  came  begrudgingly.  "But 
I  might  ha'  been." 

The  girl  laughed,  and  the  little  man,  his  per 
sistent  good  humor  restored,  joined  her,  while 
Kent  chorused  in  heartily.  But  gloom  returned 
as  Trumble  remembered  the  pig. 

"TV  bygod  pig's  lit  out.  Well,  we'll  have  to 
catch  'im  if  it  takes  all  night,  he  bein'  so  special. 
Discoverin'  pigs  in  the  dark  is  some  entertainin'." 

The  experience  justified  the  description.  With 
two  lanterns  commandeered  from  the  barn  the 
quest  commenced.  The  shadows  and  nooks  along 
the  picket  fence  were  searched,  and  every  lurking- 
place  behind  sagebrush  or  rock  became  a  center 
of  investigation.  But  no  pig. 

"Well,  it's  tough.  Humsoever,  what  must  be 
can't  be  helped.  In  the  mornin',"  this  to  the 
native  volunteer,  "you'll  find  the  beggar, — a 
likely  lookin'  young  boar.  Now  just  slip  down 
to  the  barn  with  me  an'  we'll  find  a  twin  brother  to 
stick  in  this  bygod  crate.  What  th'  honor'ble 
Sprunk'd  do  himself  is  none  too  bad  for  me  .  .  . 
and  beside,  we  don't  particularly  delight  in  playin' 
hide  an'  go  seek  in  the  dark  with  any  of  Jim  Fail 
ing's  stray  property." 


Concerning  Pigs  29 

Trumble  and  the  grinning  boy  were  starting 
for  the  barn  when  an  ill-advised  squeak  in  the 
shadow  directly  beneath  the  stage  disclosed  the 
whereabouts  of  his  porkship,  devouring  California 
fruit  with  evident  relish. 

"Ain't  that  just  what  you'd  expect  o'  Failing?" 
Yanking  out  the  offending  pig  by  a  hind  foot,  the 
little  man  proceeded  to  lay  its  perversity  at  its 
owner's  door.  "An'  expensive  fruit,  too.  Well,  th* 
hon'ble  Jim '11  have  ter  pay." 

"Who's  this  blackguard  Failing?"  Kent  asked 
laughingly. 

"  How'd  you  know  he  was  a  black'ard?  "  Trum- 
ble's  attitude  displayed  suspicion  mingled  with 
pleased  anticipation.  "Do  they  know  it  on  the 
outside?" 

"Great  Scott,  no."  Kent  hastened  to  with 
draw  from  deepening  water.  "I  don't  even 
know  who  the  man  is — just  gathered  you're  not 
fond  of  him.  And  of  course  any  pig  who'll  be  as 
mean  as  this  one  shows  the  effects  of  contaminating 
influence." 

The  girl  laughed,  but  the  little  driver  clearly 
was  disappointed. 

A  half  hour  later,  when  the  edges  of  appe 
tites  were  turned,  Kent  came  back  to  the  pig 
episode. 

"Who's  Failing — if  it's  a  fair  question?" 

"Puffec'ly  fair.  He's  the  meanest  man  in 
Oregon — and  there's  heaps  o'  competition."  More 
definite  information  from  the  girl  established 


30  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

James  Failing  as  Manager  of  the  Bonanza  Irriga 
tion  Company,  with  headquarters  at  Farewell. 

"Who's  your  friend  Sprunk — the  fellow  you 
intimated  exchanged  pigs? — what  I  really  need  is 
a  'Who's  Who  in  Central  Oregon'!" 

"I  don't  intimate  at  all  with  Sprunk.  He's 
no  frien'  o'  mine."  Trumble's  reply  was  chilly. 
However,  the  girl  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Oh,  Dad,  please  tell  him  the  judge's  hog  story. 
You  see,"  this  to  Kent,  "Mr.  Sprunk  is  judge  of 
the  county.  It's  because  he  and  Mr.  Failing  are 
cronies  that  Dad  dislikes  him." 

"Well,  sir,  it's  like  this,"  commenced  the  stage 
driver  after  appropriate  urging.  "This  here 
Judge  Sprunk's  a  Democrat,  but  of  course  in  these 
days  t'aint  right  ter  hold  that  agin  him — not 
unreasonable,  anyway.  It's  just  last  year  he 
landed  in  office,  after  about  six  tries,  an*  then  he 
only  made  the  grade  on  a  flivver.  This  here  hog 
indigent  happened  afore  he  was  judge — jes  an 
onery  officeseeker.  Sprunk  always  was  ace  high 
on  stock  raisin'  and  went  hard  after  the  blue 
ribbons  at  the  county  fair,  but  somehow  he  never 
scored  much  in  the  hog  line,  which  riled  him, 
because  he's  about  as  conceited  as  he's  onery. 
So  he  sent  to  the  outside  for  a  full  blood  Polin 
Chiny  boar.  Well,  th'  bygod  boar  got  to  Shaniko 
all  right.  I  was  there  myself  when  he  arove." 

Trumble's  ruddy  cheeks  quaked  with  laughter 
at  the  recollection. 

"It  was  a  dirty  trick — quite  ^graceful,  sir." 


Concerning  Pigs  31 

The  twinkle  in  the  blue  eyes  belied  the  heavy 
tragedy  air  of  the  confession.  "It  happened 
same's  to-night,  only  up  at  Shaniko;  the  blame 
boar  got  away.  We  went  over  the  town  with  a 
fine  tooth  comb  but  never  found  him.  Well,  sir, 
that  there  piece  o'  pork  had  kum  clear  from 
loway  by  express  an*  was  all  kinds  of  a  high  roller 
with  a  reg'lar  bygod  family  tree  and  all  them 
trimmin's.  If  Sprunk  got  just  an  empty  crate, 
it'd  break  him  all  up,  not  ter  mention  us  boys 
what  with  damages  to  pay.  So  nacherly,  we 
turned  to,  roped  a  scummy  runt  of  a  boar  with  no 
more  pedigree  than  a  coyote,  back  of  Frenchy 
Estebenet's  saloon,  and  tacked  him  up  neat  and 
sweet  in  that  lovely  empty  crate.  An'  at  that  he 
didn't  look  much  different  from  number  one." 

"Was  Mr.  Sprunk  pleased?"  Kent  inquired. 

"  Never  asked  him.  His  receipt  was  all  I 
wanted."  The  speaker  devoted  a  minute's  atten 
tion  to  pie.  "  Well,  sir,  we'd  most  forgotten  about 
Sprunk's  boar  until  two  seasons  later  th'  sequel  o' 
the  story,  as  they  say,  sort  o'  oozed  out  at  the 
county  fair.  Sprunk  was  strong  on  hogs  that 
season,  and  had  a  pen  full  o'  Polin  Chinys  that'd 
put  your  eye  out.  That  breed,  yer  know,  has  a 
considerable  pepperin'  of  black  spots  down  the 
back,  and  Sprunk's  were  spotted  to  the  queen's 
taste.  When  the  judges  came  along  there  was 
nothin'  to  it ;  those  Polin  Chinys  showed  up  exagly 
by  the  book,  and  the  blue  ribbons  was  slapped  on 
'em  immediate.  But  I  reckon  the  Lord  must 


32          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

have  been  lookin'  an*  felt  sort  o'  sad  for  the  other 
hogs,  for  all  ter  wonct  he  opened  up  a  tarnation 
big  thunder  shower  right  over  the  fair  grounds." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  the  Judge's  hogs?" 
Kent  asked. 

"Oh,  jus*  that  stove  blackin'  nacherly  will  run 
when  it  gets  wet  I  An'  by  the  time  Sprunk  came  to 
rescue  his  bygod  pets,  half  th'  folks  in  the  county 
was  crowding  around  th'  pen  in  the  rain  watchin' 
the  black  splotches  wash  clean  on  them  Polin 
Chinys  an'  laughin'  their  heads  off.  Sprunk 
kinder  retired  for  a  while  after  that,  alt  ho'  he  did 
talk  o'  suing  the  stage  company  for  libel  or  arson 
orsomethin'." 

The  story  teller  lit  his  pipe. 

"Well,  girls  an'  boys,  it's  mos'  three  o'clock. 
Le's  pretend  we've  had  a  night's  sleep  an*  keep 
going." 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  FAREWELL ' 

DAYLIGHT  came,  a  third  relay  of  bony  nags  took 
their  places  at  Shallow  Creek,  and  as  the  sun 
thawed  the  travelers,  the  road  climbed  over  the 
broad  back  of  Bear  Mountain  and  down  its  pine- 
covered  southern  flanks.  Again  they  emerged 
into  lowlands,  where  occasional  fields  were  inter 
spersed  among  the  sagebrush  flats,  and  shortly 
after  noon  reached  Roundville,  in  the  wide  bot 
tom  where  the  creeks  of  Alamo  and  McCree  join 
Winding  River. 

Thirty-five  miles  westward  lay  Farewell  Ford, 
half  the  distance  another  climb  from  the  valley 
to  the  shoulder  of  Long  Butte,  whence  the  water 
shed  of  Welcome  River  sloped  westerly.  Beyond 
the  river,  on  whose  banks  nestled  Farewell,  the 
timbered  foothills  of  the  Cascades  clamber  up 
ward  and  westward,  merging  into  the  mountains 
whose  snowy  summits  form  a  barrier  dividing 
the  semi-arid  hinterland  of  Central  Oregon  from 
the  Willamette  Valley  and  the  damp  coastal 
regions. 

The  afternoon  was  waning  when  the  stage  gained 
3  33 


34          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

the  summit  of  the  last  divide,  and  by  mutual 
consent  of  driver  and  driven  came  to  a  standstill 
in  the  shade  of  a  gnarled  juniper  tree. 

Where  a  fringe  of  dark  green  marked  the  edge 
of  the  timber  a  single  hill  stood  out  in  the  plain, 
like  a  sentinel  guarding  the  approach  to  its  fellows. 

"Over  yonder 's  Farewell,  just  at  the  foot  of  the 
butte."  The  driver  indicated  the  solitary  cone. 
"In  the  old  days  immigrants  headin'  for  the 
Ford  steered  by  it,  so  it  come  to  be  called  th* 
Pilot.  We  always  feel  sorter  better  when  we  see 
it  agin — 's  like  gettin'  home.'* 

"And  true  enough,  there's  no  place  quite  so 
good — as  home, "  the  girl  added. 

"  Be  it  ever  so  humble, "  Kent  offered,  smilingly. 

"The  right  word,  I  fear."  There  was  pathos 
in  the  girl's  answering  smile  as  her  eyes  wandered 
over  the  familiar  solitudes  of  her  brown  homeland. 
"It's  all  pretty  humble,  isn't  it,  Dad?" 

"Humble?  Why,  that's  too  purty  a  name." 
Old  man  Trumble  admonished  Kent  with  a 
stubby  forefinger.  "It's  dirt  ter  admit  it,  but 
this  here's  the  godawfulest  country  that  ever 
slipped  by  the  Creator.  There's  humbleness  same 
as  in  all  new  countries,  only  here  we've  got  hum 
bug  beside." 

"Why,  Dad,  you're  a  knocker"  Real  reproach 
was  in  the  words.  To  admit  that  one's  chosen 
land  falls  short  of  perfection  is  to  play  traitor  in  a 
region  where  flagrant  optimism  is  religion. 

"No    such    thing."     The    pessimist    defended 


On  the  Road  to  Farewell          35 


himself  with  the  self -certainty  of  positive  inno 
cence.  "It's  only  a  little  truth  leaking  through 
the  chinks  of  righteousness — this  here  sunlight 
opens  'em  up.  Jus'  take  them  little  books  th' 
company  puts  out,  chock-ablock  with  nifty 
pictures.  You  can  read  all  about  this  garden  of 
Eden  an'  how  water's  all  that's  needed  to  make 
it  blossom  like  the  rose  and  more  highfalutin' 
stuff  of  the  same  brand."  Despite  his  indignant 
words,  even  a  stranger  could  guess  that  deep  down 
in  his  heart  the  little  driver  half  believed  it  all 
was  actually  as  desirable  as  Eden.  "The  country 
might  be  worse,  but  it  doesn't  get  no  show  with  a 
nest  of  bunco  artists  milking  it  and  the  settlers 
dry.  Why,  this  gal  here— 

"Hush,  Dad,"  the  "gal"  interrupted. 

"Won't!  It's  gospel,  an*  he  might  as  well  hear 
now  as  later, "  he  insisted.  "  She's  just  back  from 
the  State  capital  down  ter  Salem.  Tried  to  get 
the  Land  Board  to  understan'  what's  going  on  in 
here — how  they're  selling  land  before  they're 
able  to  deliver  water  and  then  selling  more  to 
pay  for  getting  it  to  the  first  afore  the  settlers 
starve  to  death.  Why,  sir,  it's — it's  a  crime!" 
The  little  man's  blazing  indignation  sank  sud 
denly  as  if  oppressed  by  the  hopelessness  of  the 
case.  There  was  no  fire  left  as  he  continued. 
"Last  year  dozens  of  ranchers  who'd  cleared 
land  and  even  put  crops  in  never  got  a  drop  of 
water,  so's  their  whole  season's  work  went  for 
nothin'!" 


36  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Didn't  they  complain?"  Kent  asked. 

"Complain?  Yu  betcha!  One  of  'em  got 
throwed  out  of  Failing's  office — took  a  piece  of 
the  door  with  him — he  complained  so  hard.  Yes, 
they  got  th'  State  officials  in,  too,  but  that  just 
meant  rides  around  in  ortermobiles,  a  luncheon  an' 
booze  with  Failing,  and  what  they  advertised  as  a 
'settlers'  meeting'  where  no  one  had  a  chance  to 
speak  'cept  friends  o'  the  company.  Oh,  it's 
rotten  enough! 

"It's  the  same  old  fight  for  a  living  of  the  first 
ones  in  a  new  country."  The  driver  pursued  his 
vein  of  thought.  "I've  seen  it  a  dozen  times  this 
side  of  the  Missouri.  It's  a  hard  country,  but 
it'll  come  out  all  right  in  th'  end."  He  took  up 
the  reins.  "But  say,"  there  was  a  gleam  in  the 
old  blue  eyes  and  a  tightening  of  the  wrinkles 
about  them,  "I  wouldn't  swap  it  for  any  country 
in  this  little  old  world — nor'd  you,  after  six 
months." 

The  young  Easterner  smiled.  The  words 
brought  to  his  mind  the  picture  of  a  dinner  in 
New  York,  where  another  loyal  enthusiast  had 
defended  the  reputation  of  this  adverse  country 
with  positive  affection — and  a  tall,  gray-clad  girl 
had  listened  as  to  a  voice  from  strange  lands,  not 
entirely  comprehensible. 

"Why,  that's  exactly  what  Bishop  Rudd  says." 

"Sufferin'  cats!  Do  you  know  the  Bish? 
You  do,  eh?  Well,  if  that  ain't  the  bygodest 
luck."  The  little  driver  exuded  pleasure. 


On  the  Road  to  Farewell          37 

''You  see,  the  Bishop  is  a  special  friend  of 
ours,"  the  girl  explained.  "Dad  here  swears  by 
him — and  at  most  other  people,  as  perhaps  you've 
noticed!" 

After  they  had  heard  what  seemed  best  of 
Kent's  acquaintanceship  with  Rudd  and  of  the 
New  York  meeting  which  started  his  feet  on  the 
road  to  Farewell  Ford,  the  stage  rolled  on  towards 
Welcome  River  with  a  fine  air  of  briskness. 

The  young  man  rode  with  only  his  thoughts 
for  company,  the  horse  buyer  having  remained 
at  Roundville,  and  dust-framed  glimpses  of  silvery 
juniper  trees,  sagebrush,  and  brown  earth  as  a 
background  for  his  mental  excursioning.  Despite 
the  first  blush  of  barrenness  which  the  land  of  his 
self-made  adventure  presented,  Kent  was  superbly 
satisfied.  New  York  seemed  a  part  of  another 
world  (which  indeed  it  was),  and  he  was  all  at 
once  shocked  in  realizing  that  the  intimate  per 
sonal  element  had  somehow  gone  from  his  con 
sideration  of  Valentine  Pennoyer — by  a  curious 
sudden  mental  trick,  the  girl  in  gray  became  a 
queen  in  a  realm  of  luxury  totally  foreign  to  his 
surroundings,  and  strangely  beyond  reach.  That 
detail  annoyed  him.  He  was  tired,  he  knew,  and 
not  unnaturally  the  fresh  breath  of  new  sur 
roundings  would  temporarily  unmesh  the  cogs  of 
memory.  He  tried  to  picture  Valentine  beside 
him  there,  and  for  some  reason  failed,  which  dis 
turbed  him  vaguely,  until  he  explained  to  himself 
that  of  course  she  was  far  too  fine  for  such  rough 


38  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

environment — no,  not  quite  that — rather  say  lack 
of  environment.  At  all  events,  it  would  be 
grossly  unfair  to  drag  such  a  girl  as  Valentine 
down — he  thought  the  word  "down"  very  specifi 
cally — to  such  as  this.  Clearly  he  must  find 
success  quickly  and  return  a  conqueror  to  claim 
his  reward! 

From  such  pleasant  contemplations  Kent  pres 
ently  aroused,  stretched  comprehensively,  and 
laughed  aloud;  the  infernal  cheek  of  supposing 
himself  a  conqueror  tickled  his  healthy  sense  of 
humor.  And  with  that  modest  conclusion  his 
thoughts  returned  across  the  continent  from  his 
own  gray  girl,  and,  by  way  of  contrast,  focused 
upon  the  driver's  daughter.  The  blue  boyish 
eyes  alone  rescued  her — he  decided  in  his  idle 
inventory — from  the  dead  level  of  prosaic  plain 
ness. 

The  embers  of  the  day  were  sunset  red  behind 
the  purple  mountains  when  the  stage  stopped 
again,  some  six  miles  from  Farewell  Ford,  and  the 
girl  alighted.  Kent  was  out,  too,  seeking  explana 
tion. 

"Why,  what's  all  this?  Not  deserting  the  ship, 
surely?" 

She  nodded  acquiescence  and  a  reason  all  at  once. 
Following  the  direction  indicated,  he  spied  a  cabin 
set  at  the  edge  of  a  plowed  field,  a  hundred  yards 
or  so  from  the  road. 

"There's  no  place  just  like  it!"  She  laughed 
bravely,  catching  up  the  -thread  of  their  last 


On  the  Road  to  Farewell          39 

conversation.  "At  least,  there'll  be  none  better 
when  the  alfalfa  blooms. " 

It  seemed  altogether  wrong  to  leave  her  there, 
alone.  As  for  the  shack,  Kent  made  out  a  door 
and  a  double  window  in  the  unpainted  front — then, 
across  a  furrowed  field,  there  appeared  another 
house,  with  an  outbuilding  or  two  and  a  friendly 
wreath  of  smoke  showing  bluely  against  the  shell- 
pink  evening  sky. 

"At  least  you  have  neighbors,"  he  said  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something  reasonably  cheerful. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed.  They  keep  my  pony  over 
there.  It's  really  very  pleasant."  She  spoke 
defensively.  "And  isn't  my  mountain  beautiful? 
He's  down  on  the  map  as  The  Chief,  but  I  call 
him  Brother  Bill  ...  it  sounds  more  homey  and 
we're  really  great  friends. " 

"Well,  don't  get  lonely,"  admonished Trumble, 
preparing  to  move  on.  Kent  climbed  up  beside  him. 

"No  indeed,  Dad.  Why,  the  old  Pilot  there 
is  the  best  company  in  the  world. "  The  long 
shadow  of  the  butte  lay  across  her  little  ranch. 
"Good-night." 

The  horses  plodded  on  as  she  turned  into  the 
field  before  her  shack. 

"Got  'erchew?" 

Kent  admitted  being  chewless,  adding  that  he 
didn't  happen  to  use  tobacco. 

"An'  don't  eat  grass  neither,  I  s'pose?" 

"No. "  Kent  was  innocent  of  the  time-honored 
jest. 


40          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"So  then  yer  ain't  fit  company  for  man  or 
beast,"  Trumble  concluded  sourly,  and  immedi 
ately,  to  show  he  didn't  in  the  least  mean  it,  be 
gan  pleasant  inquiries  concerning  Bishop  Rudd,  to 
whom  he  always  referred  as  the  "Bish,"  and  as 
often  as  not  with  profane  embellishments  of  his 
own  peculiar  blend. 

"By  the  way,  the  Bishop  gave  me  letters  to  a 
couple  of  men  at  Farewell — I've  got  the  names  here 
somewhere."  The  passenger  fished  a  notebook 
from  some  pocket,  found  the  page,  and  deciphered 
the  memorandum  by  the  afterglow.  "Do  you 
know  a  Mr.  Jones  and  a  Mr.  Colton?" 

"Know  Fair  Jones  'swell's  know  my  pipe — he 
runs  th'  paper  at  Farewell.  But  tother  one — 
Mister  Colton,  you  say?  Blasted  if  I  knew 
there  was  a  he  of  that  brand  loose,  an'  I  cum 
blame  near  knowin'  every  bygod  critter  in  the 
county." 

Kent  looked  again. 

"Yes,  it's  Colton,  all  right." 

Trumble  appeared  puzzled. 

"Maybe  that  gal's  been  deceivin'  me,"  he 
growled  in  the  direction  of  the  off  wheeler. 

"That's  funny.  Why,  the  Bishop  said  Col 
ton  was  one  of  his  best  friends.  In  fact,  now  I 
remember  he  used  the  words  'my  most  useful 
helper.'"  The  young  man  ruminated  over  the 
mystery.  "Anyway,"  he  added,  "whomever  it 
belongs  to,  it's  a  bully  name — Crete  Colton. 
I  don't  think  I  ever " 


On  the  Road  to  Farewell          41 

"Crete  Colton?"  Trumble's  explosion  cut 
him  short.  After  a  full  minute  of  apoplectic 
guffawing,  the  young  man,  more  mystified  than 
ever,  demanded  explanation. 

"Why,  Crete  Colton"— the  name  acted  on  the 
little  driver  like  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  his  mirth 
burst  forth  anew — "she  ain't  no  man — no  more'n 
I'm  a  girl" — good-natured  guffaws — "she's  a 
woman." 

Kent  felt  crestfallen.  On  consideration,  he  per 
ceived  that  "Crete"  did  have  a  feminine  sound, 
after  all. 

"So  you're  introjuiced  to  Miss  Crete,  be  yer — 
an'  by  th'  Bishop?"  Trumble  considered  the 
matter  gravely.  "Then  I  reckon  yer  all  right." 

"Thanks.  But  who  is  Miss  Colton  and  where 
will  I  find  her?" 

For  some  unaccountable  reason  the  inquiry 
projected  his  companion  into  another  spasm  of 
laughter,  this  one  resented  by  Kent,  who  was 
tiring  of  his  humorous  blunders. 

"What's  the  joke  now?"  he  asked  testily. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  hadn't  ought  ter  laugh  like 
this."  The  old  man  dried  his  eyes.  "But  yer 
see,  we've  left  Mister  Colton  on  the  road  back " 

"Passed  him— that  is,  her?" 

"Yes'n  no.  Not  passed  her — jist  left  her. 
Yer  see,  Crete  Colton's  sat  here  on  th'  seat  with 
me  clear  in  from  Shaniko!" 

Kent  was  speechless.  The  dusty  haired  trav 
eler — the  hungry  girl  of  Biggs — Crete  Colton! 


CHAPTER  V 

KENT  GETS  A  JOB 

FAREWELL  started  life  with  a  firm  resolve  to 
attain  greatness.  While  fulfillment  of  this  right 
eous  ambition  came  slowly,  ample  preparation, 
at  least,  had  been  made  for  its  attainment  in 
the  ambitious  generosity  with  which  the  town 
had  been  " laid  out." 

At  the  time  of  David  Kent's  advent,  Farewell's 
empty  avenues  were  girded  principally  by  rows  of 
white  lot  stakes  marching  toward  the  four  points 
of  the  compass  in  measured  procession,  the  entire 
civic  hollow  square  of  optimism  and  progress  be 
ing  hemmed  round  about  by  persistent  sage 
brush,  junipers,  and  sand. 

The  broad  expanse  of  "Main  Street"  was 
banked  by  one-  and  two-story  buildings,  with  the 
exception  of  a  solitary  structure,  whose  triple- 
tiered  pretension  had  earned  for  its  owner  the 
lasting  sobriquet  of  Three  Story  Olsen.  Nearly 
all  the  buildings  were  contemporaneous,  for 
Farewell,  born  without  premeditation,  coincident 
with  the  timber  rush  some  six  years  previously, 
had  been  weaned  with  almost  indecent  haste. 

42 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  43 

David  Kent  strolled  along  one  of  Main  Street's 
wooden  sidewalks.  The  mid-morning  sun  was 
pleasantly  warm,  and  the  shadows  pleasantly 
cool.  A  mob  of  chattering  juniper  jays  rioted 
among  the  needles  of  a  pine  whose  erect  brown 
trunk  was  as  colorful  as  burnished  copper.  Be 
neath  the  branches  a  glimpse  of  laughing  river, 
timbered  slopes,  and  snow-crowned  mountains 
offered  grateful  contrast  to  the  dusty  street. 

In  the  open  door  of  what  purported  to  be  a 
furniture  store,  an  individual  with  short  red  hair 
and  amazingly  wide,  lilac  suspenders  sat  reading 
a  newspaper.  A  symmetrical  brown  arc  on  the 
sidewalk,  centering  at  his  chair  and  some  five 
feet  distant,  witnessed  the  infallibility  of  his 
range.  Kent  blundered  full  into  the  circle's  dan 
ger  zone  at  precisely  the  instant  when  the  red- 
haired  reader  lowered  his  paper  long  enough  to 
sight  and  fire. 

"Gosh,  I'm  sorry — never  seen  you,"  The 
furniture  man,  profuse  in  apology,  removed  traces 
of  the  accident  with  a  hectic  bandana. 

Kent  shouldered  the  blame,  and,  having  nothing 
else  to  do,  accepted  a  proffered  chair.  An  auto- 
introduction  ensued,  disclosing  the  owner  of  the 
lilac  braces  as  Jeb  Watterson,  furniture  dealer 
by  vocation  and  deputy  sheriff  through  politi 
cal  virtue,  which  is  by  way  of  saying  he  always 
voted  the  ticket  straight. 

"Looking  for  investments?"  The  inevitable 
question  came  in  due  course;  in  a  new  country 


44          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

everyone  has  something  to  sell  and  every  stranger 
is  regarded  as  a  "prospect." 

"No,  indeed.     I'm  looking  for  a  job." 

Jeb  was  disappointed,  and  showed  it.  "What 
kind?" 

"Oh,  any  kind."  He  didn't  mean  it  to  sound 
toplofty,  but  it  did. 

"Huh!"  a  segment  of  the  mahogany-colored  arc 
was  reinforced.  "Jes'  as  lief  as  not  handle  John 
D.'s  business  or  be  Taft's  secretary,  I  suppose." 

The  young  man,  unwithered  by  the  sarcasm, 
laughed  good-naturedly. 

"No.  They  tried  to  get  me  but  the  salary 
didn't  suit.  What  I  want  is  something  speeded 
pretty  modestly.  You  see,  I  think  I'm  going  to 
like  it  here,  so  I  want  to  stay,  if  it's  possible  to 
make  a  living. " 

Jeb  mollified  visibly. 

"Tried  the  company — th*  irrigation  layout? 
It's  two  fifty  per."  Kent  shook  his  head.  "Or 
th'mill?" 

"Not  yet.  But  I'll  manage  not  to  starve 
to  death,  somehow. " 

"Hope  so."  The  speaker's  face  expressed  no 
lively  concern,  however.  Then,  as  Kent  moved 
off,  he  added  calmly :  "  If  you  should,  jes  remember 
I've  got  a  cracker  jack  line  of  coffins — warranted 
handmade,  all  sizes  and  styles,  and  terms  to 
suit." 

The  office  of  the  Pioneer  stood  at  the  end  of 
Main  Street.  Not  actually  at  the  end  of  the  street 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  45 

itself,  of  course  (that  was  half  a  mile  farther  on), 
but  like  an  architectural  rear-guard  stationed  well 
beyond  the  last  rank  of  the  sprawling  buildings — 
if  not  a  finis  to  its  story  of  development  at  least 
a  "to  be  continued"  marking  the  close  of  a  first 
chapter.  The  building  was  a  square  box  of 
unpainted  boards.  A  high  false  front  gave  the 
impression  of  two  stories,  if  regarded  head  on, 
but  the  deception  was  apparent  from  any  other 
viewpoint.  An  ambitious  sign  announced  the 
name  of  the  paper,  and,  in  letters  more  modest, 
that  Pharaoh  Jones,  in  addition  to  being  "Prop." 
was  a  notary  public,  while  a  flyspecked  placard  in 
a  front  window  offered  these  further  particulars: 
"Real  Estate,  Hunting  and  Fishing  Licenses, 
Insurance. " 

Pharaoh  Jones  was  tall,  with  a  large  head,  and 
a  body  thin  beyond  belief.  His  most  prominent 
feature  was  an  abnormally  bulging  forehead,  its 
remote  borders  fringed  with  wisps  of  colorless 
hair.  Below  this  dome,  a  face  peculiarly  small 
and  webbed  by  scores  of  tiny  wrinkles  regarded 
life  with  a  gentleness  all  too  mild  for  a  country 
printer,  who  needs  be  a  steely  hearted  cynic  to 
survive  successfully  the  pangs  and  arrows  of  his 
calling. 

"Mr.  Jones?" 

"At  your  service." 

"My  name  is  Kent — David  Kent.  Bishop 
Rudd  told  me  to  look  you  up;  here's  a  note  from 
him." 


46          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Again  the  young  man  found  the  Bishop's  friend 
ship  an  open  sesame;  the  emaciated  editor  grasped 
his  hand,  ushering  him  to  the  best  there  was — the 
editorial  swivel  chair. 

"Put  your  weight  a  mite  to  the  left,"  the  host 
advised.  "It's  out  of  order,  that  chair — needs 
doctorin'." 

It  was  apparent  to  Kent  that  the  chair's  owner 
might  well  begin  his  doctoring  at  home.  But  of 
himself  Pharaoh  Jones  said  nothing,  rambling 
into  ardent  recollections  of  Bishop  Rudd,  to  whom, 
he  stated  with  winning  sincerity,  he  now  owed 
another  debt  of  gratitude.  The  younger  man 
returned  the  compliment,  and  each  found  himself 
liking  the  other  increasingly. 

"I  want  to  stay  here,  at  least  for  a  year, "  Kent 
finally  stated. 

Pharaoh  Jones  nodded  approval.  With  him 
Farewell  was  a  religion,  but  one  more  vitally 
personal  than  the  usual  theological  variety  is  apt 
to  be. 

"Couldn't  do  better,"  he  agreed.  "The  town 
has  a  grand  future,  and  the  opportunities  for 
investment  are  marvelous.  With  timber,  water 
power,  irrigation,  wheat  lands,  and — "  but  there 
the  swelling  list  was  checked  by  Kent's  smiling 
interruption. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I've  heard  a  lot  about  the  re 
sources.  The  only  one  omitted  so  far  is  your 
own  optimism — that's  worth  at  least  a  thousand 
horsepower  to  a  community!  Why,  I'm  sure 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  47 

you  and  the  Pioneer  could  make  a  city  anywhere ! " 
The  praise,  playful  as  it  was,  warmed  the  sallow 
cheeks  with  color. 

"It's  kind  to  put  it  that  way. " 

Kent  was  building  upon  a  groundwork  of  white 
lies,  having  never  seen  a  copy  of  the  Pioneer. 

"By  the  way,  may  I  see  your  last  issue? " 

' '  Certainly. ' '  There  were  a  number  of  pyramids 
of  Pioneers  beneath  a  counter  facing  the  entrance, 
with  dust  of  varying  thickness  upon  them,  ac 
cording  to  their  longevity.  From  a  pile  that 
was  scarcely  gray,  the  visitor  received  one  of  last 
Wednesday's  papers. 

The  Pioneer's  front  page  was  not  innocent  of 
advertising;  in  one  corner  the  Farewell  Bank  of 
Commerce  blossomed,  surrounded  by  an  enticing 
border  of  corpulent  money  bags,  and  in  the  other 
P.  A.  McPherson  addressed  an  eager  public  con 
cerning  "town  and  country  property."  The  six 
modest  "heads"  lured  readers  to  the  details  of  a 
school  picnic,  a  rumored  railroad,  a  new  home 
stead  law,  the  satisfactory  crop  outlook,  the  county 
court  proceedings,  and  the  development  plans  of 
the  Bonanza  Irrigation  Company.  The  back  page 
was  occupied  exclusively  by  an  advertisement  of 
the  "exceptional  opportunities  offered  settlers  on 
the  rich  segregation"  of  that  same  company. 
The  land,  one  learned,  was  free — "absolutely 
free"  was  in  two-inch  blackface  type — payment 
being  only  for  the  water  right  under  the  munifi 
cent  provisions  of  the  Carey  Act. 


48  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

On  page  two  was  the  Pioneer's  one  luxury,  an 
editorial  column.  To  be  sure,  it  was  sometimes 
occupied  by  boiler  plate,  when  the  editor  "didn't 
get  'round"  to  filling  it,  but  the  words  "Editorial 
Column"  were  always  there,  a  monument  to  men 
tal  travail  and  journalistic  pride. 

Below  the  notice  that  produce  would  not  be 
accepted  in  payment  for  subscriptions,  there 
appeared  the  couplet,  "Read  by  all,  believed  by 
some,  cussed  by  a  few,  hated  by  none. "  Motley 
advertisements  (among  them  Jeb  Watterson's) 
divided  the  honors  of  pages  two  and  three  with 
boiler  plate  "news  of  the  world  in  brief,"  mostly 
seven  weeks  old,  and  a  column  or  two  of  ' '  locals ' ' 
and  country  correspondence. 

Under  the  caption  "Important  Debate  at 
Cloverhurst"  Kent  read  far  enough  to  learn  the 
subject  of  discussion:  "Resolved,  that  money 
does  more  harm  than  drink."  His  hearty  laugh 
rattled  the  editorial  chair  to  the  verge  of 
collapse. 

"Do  they  often  pick  subjects  like  that?"  he 
asked.  Pharaoh  nodded,  gently  smiling. 

"Well,  money  isn't  likely  to  injure  me  irrepar 
ably  just  now — but  as  I  don't  happen  to  drink 
there's  no  ground  for  comparisons!"  Kent 
chuckled. 

The  mention  of  money  reawakened  thoughts 
which  had  occupied  him  earlier  on  this  first  day  in 
Farewell.  He  wanted  neither  work  nor  money 
especially,  but  the  latter  he  needed,  if  he  were  to 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  49 

follow  out  fully  the  conditions  of  his  financially 
disenfranchised  venture. 

''Mr.  Jones,  I'm  broke."  He  delivered  himself 
squarely. 

There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  Pharaoh 
Jones  had  heard  similar  declarations  before.  The 
pained  cloud  that  darkened  his  sympathetic  face 
intimated  perplexity. 

"Oh,  don't  worry! — all  I  want  is  advice,"  the 
young  man  added  hastily. 

' '  Please  don't  think  of  it  that  way. ' '  There  was 
real  distress  in  the  editor's  tone.  "A  friend  of 
Bishop  Rudd's  ...  a  friend  of  mine,  sir  ... 
anything  I  have  is  at  your  ..." 

1 '  Lorsy  me !     There  you  go  again ! ' ' 

The  interruption  came  from  a  motherly  woman, 
built  squarely  and  with  a  bonny  face,  who  emerged 
from  behind  the  type  cases. 

"Pharaoh,  what  are  you  giving  away  now?" 

"But,  Mother  ..." 

"But  me  no  buts!"  The  command  brought 
the  editor  up  abruptly  on  the  threshold  of  his 
explanation — so  abruptly  that  he  coughed  again. 

Kent  anticipated  a  stormy  scene,  but  the  ex 
pected  did  not  happen.  Instead,  Pharaoh's  better 
half  all  at  once  melted  from  a  domestic  dictator 
into  a  very  womanly  helpmate.  Her  arm  was 
on  his  thin  shoulder  when  she  continued.  "Pha 
raoh,  dear,  excuse  me  now.  I  didn't  mean  to 
interrupt,  only  I  got  listening  and  thought  some 
one  was  borrowing  money  from  you." 


50          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Pharaoh  needed  no  mollification.  At  his  wife's 
words  the  smile  returned  to  the  pale,  grave  face. 
He  introduced  Kent. 

"You  came  in  the  nick  of  time.  Your  husband 
was  on  the  point  of  giving  me  the  Pioneer! ' '  Kent 
laughingly  asserted. 

"Th'  measles'd  be  less  trouble,  and  about  as 
profitable.  I  have  to  watch  him  like  a  baby." 
Mother  Jones  harped  back  to  her  original  theme. 
"I'm  usually  back  there  in  the  shop  setting  type, 
and  every  time  there's  a  caller  I'm  in  fear  and  trem 
bling  lest  he'll  get  taken  in  on  some  scheme. 
Give  him  a  chance  an'  he'd  have  his  life  insured 
— or  try  it — once  a  week.  But  book  agents  is 
his  bait  newer,  as  the  French  say.  The  dear 
man'll  buy  anything  if  they  keep  after  him  hard 
enough — just  like  he'll  let  these  patent  medicine 
houses  talk  him  into  cutting  advert isin'  rates  in 
half." 

"Now,  Mother,  please  don't,"  Pharaoh,  fore 
seeing  what  was  coming,  pleaded  resignedly. 

"But  that's  just  what  I  will,  Fair  dear.  It's 
right  for  Mr.  Kent  to  see  all  your  wickedness  at 
the  start. "  The  biggest  sort  of  a  dimple  deepened 
in  one  cheek,  well  above  the  chubby  curve  of  her 
double  chin.  "He  looks  like  a  decent  moral  man, 
doesn't  he?" 

Kent  nodded.     Pharaoh  assuredly  did. 

"But  he  isn't.  Oh,  don't  interrupt!"  She 
smothered  signs  of  protest  from  the  embarrassed 
editor.  "There's  no  use  denying  it  when  the 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  51 

proof  is  right  here."  She  indicated  a  bulky  box, 
prodigally  nailed,  lying  beneath  a  desert  of  dust  in 
an  obscure  corner. 

"You  see,  Mister  Kent,"  the  mystery  wrecker 
continued,  "one  day  when  I  was  out  at  the  ranch 
a  book  agent  corralled  Pharaoh.  He's  never 
explained  how  it  was  done,  but  when  I  came  back 
he  had  contracted  to  buy  a  set  of  books  on  the 
installment  plan,  at  four  dollars  a  month  for  ten 
months.  That  was  last  October,  and  we're  still 
paying,  though  we  haven't  enough  money  to  get 
alfalfa  seed." 

"And  the  books?  Did  they  suit?"  Kent 
asked. 

"They'd  have  suited  him  all  right,  only  I  saw 
them  first!"  Indignation  blazed  in  her  motherly 
face.  "What  do  you  suppose  those  books  were?" 
She  put  the  query  breathlessly,  answering  it 
herself:  "The  complete  Writings  of  Guy  du  Mau 
passant!" 

Kent,  who  was  familiar  with  the  racy  raconteur, 
gurgled,  heroically  suppressing  his  inclination  to 
laugh  aloud. 

"And  me  a  member  of  the  church!" 

"But,  Mother,  I've  told  you,  I  didn't  know," 
Pharaoh  put  in. 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  doubted  his  word, 
Mister  Kent. "  The  good  woman  showed  signs  of 
real  distress.  ' '  Oh,  it  was  cruel  hard !  He  told  me 
they  was  all  about  French  life,  like  a  history,  you 
know,  and  as  he'd  signed  for  the  set  and  paid  some- 


52  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

thing  I  let  'em  come.  The  first  story  I  read  was 
called  In  the  Conservatory.  I  thought  perhaps 
I'd  got  a  wrong  book,  so  I  looked  into  some  of  the 
others  .  .  .  and  they  were  worse!  As  for  the 
pictures,  why,  land  _sakes,  the  clothes  in  all  of 
'm  wouldn't  make  covering  enough  for  one  decent 
woman!  The  whole  thing  was  a  living  scandal! 
So  I  gave  Pharaoh  his  choice — me  or  the  books. 
And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  well,  when  I  showed  him  the 
poison  he'd  bought,  he  nailed  'em  tight  in  that 
box  .  .  .  it'll  never  be  opened. " 

* 'Never,"  echoed  Pharaoh.  It  might  be  his 
tone  was  faintly  tinged  with  regret. 

4 'We're  paying  for  them  yet,"  she  continued. 
"They're  so  terrible  we  don't  dare  let  folks  here 
know  we  have  'em.  The  disgrace  ...  oh,  dear, 
dear  .  .  .  forty  dollars '  worth  of  scandal  with  us 
so  poor!  .  .  .  And  we  can't  even  give  them  to 
the  library!" 

Mother  Jones's  description  of  her  spouse's 
encounter  with  the  book  agent  was  scarcely  com 
pleted  when  an  automobile  drew  up  in  front  of  the 
Pioneer  office. 

"It's  Mister  Failing, "  Miranda  ejaculated  un 
easily. 

Forthwith  the  floor  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
of  a  big,  square-bodied  man,  and  into  the  office 
came  the  manager  of  the  Bonanza  Irrigation 
Company. 

"I'd  like  to  talk  with  you,  Jones, "  he  announced 
curtly. 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  53 

Failing's  voice  was  extraordinary.  Instead  of 
the  deep  boom  somehow  expected  from  such  a  bull- 
like  build,  the  words  came  forth  in  a  staccato 
reminiscent  of  the  hero  at  a  Punch  and  Judy  per 
formance.  The  contrast  of  the  littleness  of  the 
voice  with  the  bigness  of  the  man  was  ludicrous. 

Good  nature  is  normally  a  fat  man's  prerogative, 
and  whatever  his  mission  the  manager  contrived 
to  appear  no  exception  to  the  rule,  so  far  as  con 
cerned  outward  appearances.  But  behind  the 
smiling  mask  of  his  broad  pink  face  lurked  hints 
of  things  less  pleasant.  The  small,  wine-colored 
eyes  were  moist  and  apt  to  evade  direct  encounters. 
The  wide  brow  sloped  back  quickly.  The  heavy 
broadness  of  the  lower  face  contrasted  oddly  with 
the  rather  skin-drawn  appearance  of  cheekbones, 
nose,  and  brow.  An  inconsiderable  amount  of  un 
healthy  hair  added  further  to  the  impression  of 
a  structure  massively  founded  but  slighted  by 
architect  and  builder  as  it  rose. 

On  Failing's  hint,  Mother  Jones  and  Kent 
retired  to  the  printshop,  whither  the  manager's 
queer  voice  penetrated  more  than  once  as  he  talked 
with  Pharaoh.  That  shop,  Kent  observed,  offered 
a  notable  contrast  to  the  "front  office. "  Absolute 
spotlessness  reigned  in  the  realms  of  type,  for  the 
Pioneer's  workroom  was  as  amazingly  clean  as  its 
sanctum  was  dirty.  The  rail  was  the  dividing 
deadline. 

"It's  Pharaoh's  idea,"  she  explained.  "He's 
editor,  and  I'm  only  assistant,  you  see.  I'm  not 


54  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

supposed  to  interfere  in  the  office.  He  says  he 
knows  where  everything  is  and  if  I  clean  up  it 
bothers  him,  so  he  takes  care  of  that  side  of  the 
rail  himself.  But  in  here  I  just  naturally  like  to 
keep  things  neat. " 

"It's  quite  remarkable,'*  Kent  said  truthfully. 
The  floors  of  printships  normally  are  cluttered 
outrageously  but  the  Pioneer  was  as  clean  as  a 
Dutch  kitchen.  The  leads,  slugs,  and  reglets 
were  stored  neatly  in  remodeled  cigar  boxes,  even 
the  type  cases  were  dustless,  the  Gordon  jobber  was 
as  resplendent  as  the  nature  of  job  presses  permits, 
and  the  polish  of  the  windows  would  shame  the 
untidy  instincts  of  any  predatory  fly. 

In  due  course  Pharaoh  joined  them. 

"Well,  I've  got  'em.  Two  months'  work, 
Mother."  The  editor  methodically  assorted  a 
sheaf  of  papers,  and  impaled  them  upon  the  hith 
erto  naked  job  hook. 

"The  contracts?"  asked  Mother  Jones. 

Pharaoh  nodded.  "And  a  lot  beside  .  .  . 
more  work  than  we've  seen  since  the  timber 
rush." 

Yet  the  editor  sighed,  and  his  wife  showed  no 
elation  over  this  avalanche  of  prosperity. 

"What  did  he  say  .  .  .   ?" 

Instead  of  answering,  the  tired-eyed  editor 
communed  with  himself  for  a  full  minute,  until 
Kent  suddenly  remembered  these  were  private 
matters. 

"Well,  I  do  hope  everything's  all  right.     I  must 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  55 

be  going  now  .  .  .  pressing  engagement,  you 
know!" 

Pharaoh  regarded  him  silently,  with  specula 
tive  eyes,  evidently  occupied  by  some  disturbing 
problem. 

"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  .  .  ."  Kent, 
about  to  go,  held  out  his  hand. 

"Busy?"  Pharaoh  showed  no  desire  to  speed 
the  parting  guest. 

"Lord,  no!" 

"Then  sit  down.  I'm  not  .  .  .  well,  quite 
comfortable.  I'd  like  to  ...  er  ...  it' d  be  a 
real  favor  to  talk  things  over  with  you  .  .  .  you 
being  fresh  from  the  outside,  a  stranger  and  all 
that,  could  give  good  advice.  And  besides,  you'll 
know  all  about  it  later." 

A  synopsis  of  the  editor's  narrative,  which  in 
cluded  most  of  Farewell's  biography,  impressed 
itself  upon  his  listener.  James  Failing  practically 
supported  the  Pioneer.  For  two  years  the  Bonanza 
full-page  advertisement  had  proved  a  veritable 
windfall  to  the  little  paper,  while  the  irrigation 
office  provided  more  than  half  of  the  job  work. 
To  be  sure,  this  latter  in  the  past  had  chiefly 
applied  on  the  payment  for  a  forty-acre  ranch 
bought  by  Pharaoh  from  the  company,  but  this 
particular  batch  of  work  meant  cash.  And  cash, 
explained  practical  Mother  Jones,  implied  means 
of  planting  alfalfa  and  "lots  of  other  things. "  A 
crisis  had  been  pending  ever  since  the  Pioneer 
voiced  criticism  of  the  company  ten  days  ago, 


56  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

and  they  had  momentarily  expected  Failing's 
wrath  to  fall  upon  them. 

4 'Oh,  I  hated  it,  all  right."  Worry  made 
Pharaoh  cough. 

"Never  mind,  Fair  dear,"  his  wife  comforted 
him.  "We're  spoiled,  that's  all,  because  we  have 
so  little  trouble." 

"As  soon  as  you  were  gone  Failing  opened  up  in 
that  idiotic  voice  of  his.  He  didn't  threaten  much 
or  fly  off  the  handle — if  he  had,  I'd  have  told  him 
to  take  his  dirty  business  and  be  damned!" 

"Sh!  Why,  Pharaoh!"  But  despite  her  admoni 
tion,  one  imagined  Mother  Jones  secretly  gloried 
at  the  rare  rebellion. 

"Well,  I  would."  He  was  quite  grim — for 
him.  "Of  course,  he  was  mad  about  the  settler's 
letter,  and  when  I  wouldn't  tell  him  who  wrote  it 
he  nearly  blew  up.  The  letter,  Mr.  Kent?  Oh, 
you  see  we  published  a  letter  signed  'A  Settler/ 
which  protested  because  the  Irrigation  Company 
was  trying  to  sell  more  land  before  it  had  delivered 
water  to  the  people  who'd  already  bought." 

"Great  Scott,  that  isn't  allowed,  is  it?" 

"Oh,  isn't  it?  I  should  say  so!  It's  rotten, 
but  it's  being  done  every  day.  Take  the  Federal 
Southern,  for  instance."  He  referred  to  a  well- 
known  irrigation  fiasco  of  a  dozen  years  since. 
"Land  was  sold  there  and  money  collected. 
Settlers  moved  in  and  started  clearing.  Then  it 
was  discovered  there  wasn't  enough  water  to  care 
for  half  the  acreage.  Of  course,  the  company 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  57 

went  bankrupt — after  it  had  been  milked  dry  by 
the  promoters — and  the  settlers  were  left  on  their 
backs." 

"That  letter  must  have  been  rather  fine,  then? 
Who  wrote  it?" 

Pharaoh  hesitated. 

"Oh,  I  beg  pardon.  Of  course,  that's  a  secret. 
But  can't  the  settlers  get  justice  .  .  .  from  the 
State  .  .  .  or  somebody?" 

The  editor  smiled  a  bit  wearily. 

"Apparently  not.  You  see,  they  choke  off  all 
complaints.  Mighty  little  ever  becomes  public 
when  it's  a  case  of  a  few  busted  settlers  against  a 
big  corporation.  Why,  even  the  papers  down 
in  th'  City  won't  print  anything  about  settlers' 
troubles  .  .  .  pretend  it  hurts  development  and 
all  that." 

Next,  it  appeared,  Failing  had  told  the  editor 
that  thereafter  he  did  not  expect  to  see  any 
criticism  of  the  company  in  the  Pioneer.  "If 
you  can't  find  something  good  to  print,  don't  print 
anything,"  was  exactly  the  way  he  phrased  it. 

"Then  he  went  on  to  say  his  advertising  was 
nothing  but  a  meal  ticket  for  us,  intimating  we'd 
probably  starve  to  death  without  it.  He  said  the 
ad.  did  them  no  real  good  and  our  job  prices  were 
away  above  th'  City's — which  is  true — I  know  it. 
Why,  even  the  meal  ticket  part's  correct — charity 
from  such  a  source — it's  just  hell."  The  tall 
wasted  man  bowed  down  beneath  the  unkind- 
ness  of  it  all.  His  shabby  suit  seemed  more  ill 


58  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

fitting  than  ever,  his  face  more  pinched,  his  eyes 
wearier. 

"Yes,  I  took  them.  It  was  that  ...  or  war." 
Pharaoh's  voice  was  husky.  "And  now  I  suppose 
we're  gagged  .  .  .  the  poor  settlers  .  .  .  and  sir, 
what  hurts  worst  is  /  know  we're  right. " 

Mother  Jones,  with  face  averted,  was  suspi 
ciously  quiet. 

"Shall  I  send 'em  back?" 

If  the  editor's  wife  had  nodded,  James  Failing 
would  shortly  have  received  an  instructive  surprise. 
But  in  due  course  she  looked  around  and  did  not 
nod.  Instead  she  said,  with  a  brave  effort  at  a 
smile : 

"Fair  dear,  we'd  like  to,  but  we  can't  .  .  .  just 
yet.  Some  day,  when  the  ranch  is  in  crops  and 
the  Pioneer's  a  daily,  we'll  show  him!  .  .  .  And 
now  we've  a  very  great  deal  to  do,  and  Wednes 
day's  paper  not  all  in  yet. " 

Saturday  was  nearly  half  gone.  Mother  Jones, 
fortified  with  a  long  gray  apron,  took  a  stick  of 
type  from  the  forms  on  the  stone,  and  once  more 
the  soft  click-click  of  the  lead  letters,  scattering 
into  the  cases  as  her  skilled  hand  distributed  line 
after  line,  made  printer's  music  in  the  shop. 

"You  wanted — a — er,  that  is  occupation?"  As 
"job"  sounded  harsh,  the  more  polite  word  was 
substituted. 

The  young  man  with  seven  dollars  and  thirty- 
five  cents  nodded  a  vigorous  affirmative. 

' '  We'll  need  help. ' '     Emerging  from  his  abstrac- 


Kent  Gets  a  Job  59 

tion,  the  gaunt  man  delivered    himself  like    an 
oracle. 

And  thereafter,  with  no  ceremony  at  all  and  a 
deal  of  good-natured  haggling  (each  party  bargain 
ing  against  himself)  a  pact  was  entered  into 
whereby  David  Kent,  volunteer  camper  on  the 
trail  of  success,  assumed  the  high  office  and  modest 
duties  of  general  assistant  to  the  staff  of  the 
Pioneer. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SUNDAY  AT  LITTLE  EGYPT 

ON  a  morning  of  a  Sunday  in  June,  David  Kent 
journeyed  toward  Little  Egypt,  as  Pharaoh  Jones 
had  inexplicably  named  his  ranch  adjoining  Crete 
Colton's,  some  four  miles  from  Farewell.  Agamem 
non,  Pharaoh's  mature  horse,  furnished  leisurely 
motive  power  for  the  buggy  whose  seat  the  young 
man  shared  with  the  neighbor  landlord,  or  lady,  of 
the  Little  Egyptians. 

It-  was  not  until  Agamemnon  evidenced  over 
whelming  sleepiness  on  the  outskirts  of  town  that 
Kent  abandoned  conjecturing  the  contents  of  a  fat 
letter  from  Valentine,  which  now  metaphorically 
burned  in  his  coat  pocket  with  the  pleasurable 
mystery  of  all  unopened  envelopes.  Their  steed's 
somnolent  tactics,  however,  returned  the  young 
man's  wandering  attention  and  his  manners. 
Whipping  the  horse,  he  began  talking  to  the  girl. 

"Aggie  isn't  a  very  successful  sleep  walker,"  he 
observed.  "And,  speaking  of  sleep,  I  suppose 
you're  pretty  tired  yourself?" 

She  was.  Yesterday  the  school  term  had  ended 
in  that  function  whimsically  called  commence- 

60 


Sunday  at  Little  Egypt  61 

ment.  The  responsibilities  of  directing  her  charges 
through  recitations,  of  greeting  their  parents  tact 
fully,  and  of  looking  attractive,  and  yet  not  too  at 
tractive  to  be  efficient  (in  the  estimation  of  the 
School  Board)  still  weighed  upon  her.  Laugh 
ingly,  she  recounted  the  complex  difficulties  of 
eighth  grade  pedagogy. 

"  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  like  it, "  she  added. 

"There  it  is  again!'' 

"There  is  what?     I  don't  understand.' 

"Oh,  you  and  the  Bishop  and  Pharaoh  are  all 
the  same.  You  like  your  work."  He  turned  to 
her  in  a  burst  of  confidence.  "The  Bishop  gave 
me  a  bully  sermon  along  those  lines.  You  see,  I 
never  did  much  of  anything  back  East,  and  I 
didn't  like  what  I  did.  Everything  was  a  beastly 
bore.  Then  along  came  Rudd  and  told  me  it  was 
all  my  fault,  and  through  him  I  came  out  here. " 

She  nodded.     "Do  you  like  it?" 

"Tremendously.  That's  the  funny  part.  I 
haven't  found  much  to  do  yet,  except  potter 
around  the  paper,  but  that  suits  me  down  to  the 
ground  ...  if  there  was  only  more  of  it."  The 
sunshine  seemed  to  have  filtered  into  the  young 
man's  heart.  His  words  were  buoyant,  like  his 
eyes.  "You  see,  Miss  Colton,  I  simply  must 
make  good." 

"Everyone  feels  that  way  ...  on  June  morn 
ings,"  she  laughed.  "But  who  put  the  novel 
idea  in  your  head?" 

"Rudd." 


62  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"And  what  will  the  Bishop  do  if  you  disappoint 
him?" 

"It  isn't  him  I  mind.  It's—"  But  there  sud 
den  embarrassment  halted  Kent. 

"Oh!"  said  Crete  Colton. 

"Engaged.  I  thought  so,"  was  the  girl's  men 
tal  comment. 

1 '  After  all,  I'm  not  engaged.  Wish  I  were, ' '  was 
the  man's  thought. 

Each  of  them  was  quite  impersonal,  so  far  as 
consideration  of  the  other  was  concerned.  To  the 
girl,  the  man  wore  the  badge  of  another  woman 
and  therefore  was  satisfactorily  safe.  As  Kent 
believed,  he  was  Valentine's,  and  Valentine — he 
hoped — was  to  be  his,  and  so  the  field  of  femi 
nine  attraction  was  filled.  Nurtured  in  this  neu 
tral  security  their  acquaintanceship  had  ripened 
pleasantly. 

The  gray-tinted  juniper  trees  hung  heavy  with 
clusters  of  berries,  old  blue  and  opal  in  color,  and 
about  their  branches  frolicked  juniper  jays,  the 
blues  of  their  backs  and  wings  harmonizing  with 
the  tones  of  their  namesake  trees.  A  pair  of  newly 
wedded  nuthatches  alternately  preened  then- 
feathers  and  bathed  in  the  brown  dust .  The  straight 
columns  of  pine  trees  here  and  there  contrasted 
with  the  gnarled  junipers,  lifting  needled  greenery 
against  the  morning  sky.  The  scent  of  sage 
was  poignant  and  countless  thousands  of  tiny 
white  starflowers  twinkled  in  the  sand,  out-smiling 
the  bright  sun  itself,  and  defying  its  parching  rays. 


Sunday  at  Little  Egypt  63 

'Agamemnon  proceeded  to  the  center  of  the  flat 
lying  between  Farewell  and  the  Pilot  and  there 
halted  without  apparent  cause. 

" Force  of  habit,"  was  Miss  Colton's  answer  to 
Kent's  look  of  inquiry.  ' '  Did  you  notice  how  Jeff 
Bayley's  horse  always  stops  in  front  of  Anderson's 
saloon?" 

Kent  had;  an  historic  story  related  that  when 
Jeff's  horse  was  stolen  it  subsequently  deserted  the 
thief  and  one  morning  two  weeks  later  appeared  of 
its  own  volition  at  the  accustomed  post  before 
Anderson's,  bringing  back  to  Jeff  an  excellent 
saddle  he  had  never  before  seen. 

''Yes.     But  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"It's  habit  with  Aggie,  too.  These  lots  belong 
to  Pharaoh,  and  he  always  stops  here  to  build 
castles  in  the  air  ...  that  is,  cities  in  the  dust. " 

"Good  Lord!  So  Pharaoh  owns  these!  Why, 
we're  a  mile  and  a  half  from  town.  I  hope  they 
didn't  cost  him  much. " 

"Oh,  I  consider  them  very  good  property." 
The  girl  was  on  the  defensive  at  once.  "You 
know,  when  the  town  has  25,000  people,  or  even 
10,000,  these  will  be  worth  a  lot  of  money. " 

' '  When. ' '  He  emphasized  the  adverb.  ' '  Why 
not*/?" 

She  shook  her  head  in  mock  despair. 

"Don't  be  a  pessimist.  It's  against  the  law  in 
Oregon !  Some  day  you'll  have  to  eat  your  words. 
Besides  they  didn't  cost  Pharaoh  much  of  any 
thing,  as  he  took  them  for  advertising. "  Then  she 


64          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

added  gravely.     "I  do  hope  he  will  be  able  to  sell. 
Poor  people,  they  need  money  so  badly. " 

"And  how  about  ranchers  without  water  for 
crops — young  lady  ranchers,  for  instance?" 
,  The  pointed  inquiry  brought  a  flush  to  her  face. 

"That's  different.  I'm — er — ranchers  are 
strong  and  if  they  are  young,  there's  plenty  of 
chance  later  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  .  .  .  Go 
along,  Agamemnon. " 

Thereafter  Agamemnon  concentrated  on  his 
task,  and  conversation  languished. 

Upon  their  arrival  at  Pharaoh's  they  found  him 
seated  upon  the  doorstep,  where  the  sun  warmed 
his  gaunt  frame  and  the  Pilot  and  the  mountains 
behind  it  offered  a  cheerful  outlook.  His  atten 
tion,  however,  was  focused  upon  a  paper,  while 
his  forlorn  expression  seemed  in  keeping  with  the 
poverty-stricken  appearance  of  the  paintless 
shack  at  his  back. 

Greetings  exchanged  and  Agamemnon  disposed 
of,  the  two  men  set  to  talking  while  Crete  "ran 
over"  to  her  own  shack  a  quarter  of  a  mile  along 
the  lateral  ditch.  On  the  morrow  she  moved  out 
from  town  for  the  summer  ranching,  and  she  must 
"see  about  things,"  an  indefinite  and  everlasting 
feminine  prerogative  in  household  affairs. 

"A  bonny  lass,"  said  Pharaoh. 

"Very  attractive,"  Kent  assented,  thinking 
more  of  his  letter,  still  unread,  than  of  his  words. 

' '  She  should  be  married. "  Good  Mother  Jones, 
emerging  from  the  house,  voiced  the  universal 


Sunday  at  Little  Egypt  65 

verdict  of  the  court  of  womankind,  that  tribunal 
without  appeal.  Like  wives  the  world  over  her 
instincts  were  a  matchmaker's.  Whether  the 
motive  be  charity  or  spite,  the  commandment 
seems  to  be:  "Do  unto  others  as  has  been  done 
unto  you." 

"Are  there — prospects?"  Kent  put  the  ques 
tion  discreetly. 

"There  are  and  there  aren't,"  Mother  Jones 
compromised,  with  a  trace  of  embarrassment. 

"Worse  luck!"  Whoever,  or  whatever,  was  at 
the  bottom  of  it  evidently  riled  the  editor.  He 
sputtered:  "The  thing  I  can't  understand  is  what 
a  girl  like  her  sees  in  a  man  so  doggon  hateful  as 

TJ\ » 

"Sh-h!  For  shame,  Fair!"  Miranda's  hand, 
capably  applied  to  his  mouth,  stifled  her  spouse's 
outbreak. 

"Women,"  said  Pharaoh,  seizing  the  luxury  of 
the  last  word  when  his  wife  had  departed,  "are 
beyond  all  understanding." 

Kent  subscribed  to  the  sentiment  with  a  chari 
table  smile  and  betook  himself  to  the  shade  of  a 
juniper  tree  and  his  letter. 

The  epistle  contained  four  pages  of  routine  news 
(through  which  Kent  hurried),  two  pages  of  self- 
doubting  (read  with  restive  frowns),  a  page  and 
a  half  of  lover-like  loneliness  (reread  thrice,  with 
tender  delight),  and  half  a  page  of  announcement 
extraordinary. 

The  first  section  was  humdrum,  concerning  such 


66          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

items  of  everyday  metropolitan  life  as  new  frocks, 
matinees,  and  a  contemplated  visit  from  Cousin 
Cecile  who  lives  in  Baltimore.  The  second, 
whose  penmanship  hinted  distress,  hinged  upon  the 
difficulties  of  constancy  to  the  lover  far  away, 
indicating  a  belief  that  after  all  perhaps  absence 
does  not  make  the  heart  grow  fonder.  Also,  it 
appeared  that  for  once  Mamma  and  Dads  were  - 
entirely  agreed,  their  meeting  ground  the  mutual 
belief  that  she,  Valentine,  would  do  well  to  forget 
her  sentimental  bargain  with  young  Mr.  Kent. 
"Aren't  they  too  horrid  for  words,  David  dear?" 
this  portion  of  the  letter  concluded.  To  which 
David  added  a  fervid  "Amen,"  and  one  or  two 
other  things.  The  loneliness  and  David-want 
portion  of  the  letter  requires  no  comment;  mil 
lions  of  men  and  women  in  the  ante-betrothed, 
post-betrothed,  and  early  married  stages  have 
written  similarly. 

"You  may  remember  that  Dads  is  interested 
in  an  irrigation  company,"  the  announcement 
extraordinary  proceeded.  "An  irritation  com 
pany,  I  call  it,  for  that  is  all  he  seems  to  get  from  it. 
Somehow  there's  a  horrid  muddle  and  poor  Dads, 
instead  of  making  a  lot  of  money,  may  lose  some. 
He  is  quite  angry  and  of  course  it's  a  dreadful 
shame  that  after  all  he  has  done  they'd  treat  him 
so.  And  David,  the  wonderful  news  is  that 
Dads  says  he  must  go  out  and  see  about  it.  I 
haven't  told  him  yet,  but  Tm  going  with  him! 
Don't  laugh — I'll  just  make  him  take  me. " 


Sunday  at  Little  Egypt  67 

"Lovingly"  was  scratched  out  not  so  thor 
oughly  as  to  be  indecipherable,  and  the  letter 
ended  ' '  Affectionately,  Valentine. ' '  Then :  ' '  P. S. 
I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  the  irritated  company  is 
in  California.  That  is  next  door  to  Oregon  so  you 
can  come  and  see  me.  Are  you  keeping  the  rules  ? 
I  am.  V."  In  very  small  letters  on  a  margin 
was  this  malicious  afterthought:  "Max  Welton 
will  go  too." 

"Damn,"  said  Kent,  at  the  post-postscript. 
The  rest  of  it  set  his  heart  to  beating  dance  time, 
and  back  to  the  house  he  went,  treading  the  thin 
air  of  daydream  paradise. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Chief?"  Kent  had 
adopted  that  name  for  Pharaoh. 

"Water  rent,"  was  the  laconic  reply.  "Two 
years  of  it. " 

"Oh,  you  didn't  pay  last  season,  then?" 

"No.  And  Crete's  in  the  same  boat."  Pha 
raoh  whistled  Loch  Lomond  through  his  teeth, 
contemplating  further  confidences. 

"Well,  Mr.  Kent,"— he  had  not  yet  reached 
plain  "David,"-  -"you're  learning  much  of  our 
affairs,  so  you  may  as  well  know  more.  In  a  nut 
shell,  we're  not  paying  for  what  we  haven't  had. " 

"They've  not  delivered  the  water,  then?" 

"Exactly.  Our  contract  calls  for  one  and  eight 
tenths  second  feet  an  acre,  and  their  own  measure 
ments  of  the  water  in  the  canal  show  there  isn't 
enough  to  supply  the  sold  lands,  let  alone  what 
they  expect  to  sell.  Of  course,  the  water  is  to  be 


68          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

had  from  the  river,  and  it's  simply  a  matter  of  en 
larging  the  canal  so  it  can  handle  greater  flow. " 

"  Surely  you  had  some  water?  "  he  asked. 

"Some,  yes.  But  not  enough  .  .  .  too  little 
for  the  crops  and  certainly  a  lot  less  than  my  con 
tract  calls  for.  As  for  her,"  he  nodded  towards 
Crete  Colton's  home,  "she  was  just  naturally 
busted  last  August.  During  the  early  summer, 
when  there  wasn't  a  big  demand,  they  turned  a  fair 
amount  of  water  down  this  ditch  so  she  went  ahead 
and  sowed  about  twenty  acres  of  clover  and  alfalfa. 
Then  just  when  the  stuff  was  getting  in  good  shape, 
and  needed  water  the  most,  there  wasn't  any  more. 
So  the  entire  crop  burned  up. " 

"She  complained?"  Kent  thought  of  nothing 
better  to  say. 

"Complained?  God!  If  it  had  been  me,  I'd 
have  used  a  shotgun."  Pharaoh  regarded  the 
blue  sky  gloomily.  "Complain?"  he  repeated. 
"Say,  what's  the  use  of  kicking  to  the  Lord  when 
the  weather's  bad?  None,  eh?  Well,  it's  just 
about  the  same  with  Failing — 'the  settlers  be 
damned, '  says  he,  and  boosts  his  salary  as  mana 
ger  another  hundred. " 

"It  gets  you,  Mr.  Kent."  In  the  pale  eyes 
there  burned  a  something  deep  of  rebellion  and 
sadness,  like  a  child  struggling  hopelessly  against 
bullying.  "Disaster  and  injustice  at  close  range 
aren't  pleasant.  Take  Crete.  There  was  about 
five  hundred  dollars  coming  to  her  from  that 
clover  .  .  .  the  saving  of  a  year.  And  it  dried 


Sunday  at  Little  Egypt  69 

and  dried  and  burned  brown  and  went  to  nothing 
before  your  eyes.  And  what  do  you  suppose  she 
said?  'Better  luck  next  year/  .  .  .  Can  you 
beat  that?" 

Kent  pondered  the  problem. 

" Failing  admits  there's  not  enough  water?"  he 
asked  presently. 

"  Practically.  He  promises  improvements  in  the 
system,  though." 

"  I  thought  you  said  there  was  no  more  money?  " 

"There  isn't,  except  the  maintenance  charges, 
which  go  chiefly  for  salaries  and  upkeep.  Of 
course,  we  don't  know,  but  it's  fairly  sure  no  more 
capital  will  invest  with  things  as  they  are.  It's 
all  been  going  out  and  nothing  coming  in.  Sales 
are  at  a  standstill;  in  fact,  there's  little  land  left 
to  sell.  The  only  hope  is  the  South  Canal  unit." 

This  solution,  Kent  knew,  contemplated  the 
reclamation  of  another  body  of  land  adjoining  the 
present  segregation.  The  scheme,  while  skillfully 
sugared  over  with  plausible  advantages,  in  its 
naked  simplicity  was  nothing  more  than  a  des 
perate  stopgap  to  redeem  the  failing  fortunes  of 
the  Bonanza  Company.  The  new  lands  were  to 
be  watered  and  sold — or,  perhaps,  as  in  the  past, 
first  sold  and  then  watered  provided  the  funds  held 
out — and  with  this  fresh  revenue  the  needs  of  the 
original  segregation  could  be  cared  for,  scandal 
turned  into  success,  and  (more  important  in  the 
eyes  of  the  eastern  bondholders)  interest  payments 
met  and  sinking  funds  fattened. 


70          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

The  three-year  contract  with  the  State  under 
which  the  B.  I.  C.  controlled  the  South  Canal 
segregation  would  lapse  that  September,  unless 
an  extension  of  time  was  granted.  Technically, 
as  the  company  had  done  absolutely  no  reclama 
tion,  the  contract  should  be  annulled  at  the  time 
limit.  But  technicalities  in  the  past  had  received 
small  consideration  and  it  was  well  understood 
that  an  extension  could  be  expected.  In  view  of 
the  heavy  investments  and  losses  of  the  company 
Failing  sought  permission  to  place  a  higher  lien, 
probably  fifty-five  dollars  an  acre,  on  the  new 
segregation,  and  as  the  actual  reclamation  cost 
was  extremely  low,  enormous  profits  seemed 
assured.  Extension  of  the  South  Canal  contract 
with  the  State  was  therefore  the  immediate  goal 
of  Failing's  endeavors. 

But  in  the  meantime  the  Bonanza  Company  was 
in  perilously  deep  water,  and  not  a  few  settlers  had 
sunk  for  the  third  time.  A  vigorous  push  might 
bring  the  tottering  structure  about  the  ears  of  its 
dictator  manager.  Whether  or  not  the  settlers 
then  would  fare  worse  than  ever  was  an  unsolved 
riddle.  As  it  was,  with  their  annual  maintenance 
fees  they  virtually  were  supporting  the  Failing 
machine. 

"We've  decided  not  to  pay  our  water  rent.'* 

"If  everyone  does  it,  that  will  wreck  them." 

"I  reckon."     Pharaoh's  eyes  glinted.     "Us  or 

them.     Perhaps   both.     And   this   summer  we'll 

get  enough  water  if  we  have  to — . "     His  serious 


Sunday  at  Little  Egypt  71 

glance  focused  in  the  direction  of  the  head- 
gate. 

" We'll  get  it,  Pharaoh."  Crete  Colton,  un 
noticed  by  the  two  men  conversing  on  the  door 
step,  had  returned.  "Mr.  Failing  told  me  so." 

The  walk  across  the  plain  had  heightened  the 
girl's  color.  Kent  resented  his  suspicion  that  the 
manager's  name  added  even  a  rosier  tint.  That 
name,  coming  when  and  whence  it  did,  struck  her 
hearers  with  odd  discomfiture. 

"Damn  Failing,"  growled  the  editor,  as  Crete 
went  indoors. 

"Amen, "  said  the  young  man  from  the  East. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HONEYMOONS,  PERFECT  AND  OTHERWISE 

THE  setting  of  that  Sunday  dinner  was  simpli 
city  itself — a  healthy  American  simplicity. 

White  curtains  and  radiantly  red  geraniums 
adorned  the  windows  of  the  shack.  Gray  building 
paper  neatly  covered  the  walls  and  ceiling,  its 
chaste  expanse  unsullied  by  the  usual  jaundiced 
calendars  and  picture  postals.  One  of  Steven 
son's  gems  of  optimism  had  an  entire  wall  to  itself, 
framed  with  a  narrow  strip  of  gray  and  in  its  spirit 
encompassing  an  eternity  of  courage.  A  Reuter- 
dahl  sea  sketch,  in  large  lines  and  vivid  colors,  con 
trasted  with  a  gracious  print  of  the  world-known 
"Portrait  of  the  Artist's  Mother. " 

"I  never  saw  the  ocean, "  Miranda  Jones  sighed. 
"  I  know  I  would  love  it." 

"Your  mountains  are  better. " 

Crete  Colt  on  laughed. 

"As  a  rule  a  man's  a  fool;  when  it's  hot  he  wants 
it  cool.  And  when  it's  cool  he  wants  it  hot,  always 
wanting  what  is  not,"  she  quoted,  mocking  his 
gallantry. 

Kent  took  up  cudgels. 
'72 


Honeymoons,  Perfect  and  Otherwise  73 

"Well,  Miss  Colton,  which  do  you  want?" 

"Both!" 

"Dear  me,  that's  a  large  order.  Why  so  grasp 
ing?" 

The  girl  became  serious — approximately  so,  that 
is. 

"Because  I've  never  had  either.  The  nearest 
I've  come  to  the  salt  water  was  on  a  book  voyage 
to  Treasure  Island  and  another  with  Captains 
Courageous.  The  mountains  I've  seen,  at 
least." 

Instinctively  the  four  of  them  regarded  those 
mountains,  their  crests  crisply  white  just  then, 
with  undisciplined  cloud  halos  poising  overhead, 
and  below  pine-clad  foothills,  billowing  upward 
to  the  snowy  skyline. 

"As  for  me,  I'll  never  get  there.  Horses  aren't 
made  stout  enough,"  said  Mother  Jones,  good- 
humoredly,  and  went  to  fetch  another  plate  of  hot 
biscuits. 

"Nor  me."  Pharaoh  coughed  depreciatingly, 
with  the  wistfulness  that  stalks  the  smiles  of  the 
bravest  of  the  sick. 

Crete  Colton  sighed  profoundly. 

"It's  a  man's  world,"  said  she,  wagging  a  sun- 
browned  finger  of  scorn  at  the  two  males.  "De 
fenseless  maidens  can  do  nothing  alone " 

"Except  work, "  qualified  Mother  Jones,  return 
ing  with  the  biscuits. 

' '  Of  course.  I  was  going  to  say  teach  school  or 
ranch.  But  wait!  The  time  is  coming  when 


74          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

woman's  vote  will  split  man's  world  in  two — like 
that  I ' '  Dramatically  she  divided  a  steaming 
biscuit,  buttered  one  half,  and  ate  it. 

"Was  it  the  man's  half  you  left ? "  queried  Kent, 
laughing. 

"It  was" — buttered  biscuit  delayed  the  girl's 
diction — "not.  Women  prefer  men  .  .  .  poor 
things!  Beside,  as  I  was  saying,  we  can't  do  a 
thing  alone — we're  actually  driven  into  masculine 
arms." 

Just  then  Kent  could  conceive  of  no  better 
occupation  for  arms  of  man  than — but  what  folly 
of  a  June  moment!  .  .  .  There  was  Valentine 
.  .  .  Could  one  imagine  her  in  such  a  madcap 
mood?  Indeed,  could  butter  or  hot  biscuit  be 
considered  in  the  same  mental  breath  as  Central 
Park  West?  No.  .  .  .  Dignity,  elegance,  woman 
ly  reserve,  daintiness  ...  At  that  point,  however, 
catching  the  eye  of  the  merry  militant,  he  laughed 
aloud. 

"And  anyway,  Mister  Kent,"  she  continued 
with  a  twinkle  in  her  blue  eyes,  "I  understand 
you  insisted  on  making  a  man  of  me.  .  .  . " 

"Heaven  forbid!    That  would  spoil 

"A  perfectly  good  schoolmarm!"  she    cut   in. 

"I  was  going  to  say  something  much  nicer, "  he 
insisted. 

"Then  I'm  sorry  I  interrupted.  But  you  will 
admit  you  thought  I  was  a  man,  won't  you?" 

Kent  pleaded  guilty  to  the  charge.  Dad  Trum- 
ble  had  given  too  generous  publicity  to  that  inci- 


Honeymoons,  Perfect  and  Otherwise  75 

dent  of  his  arrival  at  Farewell,  when  he  had 
thought  Crete  a  man's  name,  to  permit  denial. 

"Well,  you're  forgiven  .  .  .  even  if  you  do 
think  there  are  nicer  things  than  schoolmarms. 
And  as  you  really  seem  contrite  I'll  admit  the  mis 
take  has  been  made  before  ...  I  suppose 
'Crete'  really  is  a  rather  queer  name." 

"It's  original,  anyway.  How  did  you  fall  heir 
to  it?" 

"A  sort  of  process  of  elimination  .  .  .  say 
survival  of  the  fittest, "  she  explained.  "You  see, 
my  mother's  name  was  Lucretia.  When  I  hap 
pened  along  she  set  her  heart  on  naming  me 
Lucretia  too.  But  dad  objected  ...  he  said  it 
was  altogether  too  fancy  and  highfalutin'  .  .  . 
too  much  of  it  for  one  snub-nosed  baby.  .  .  .  Dad 
was  a  good  deal  of  a  Puritan,  anyway,  and  always 
balked  against  putting  on  dog.  He  wanted  to  call 
me  plain  Mary.  Well,  of  course,  I  don't  exactly 
remember  all  the  details,  but  the  incident  is  histori 
cally  accurate,  as  the  encyclopedia  says.  Finally 
they  compromised  and  called  me  Crete.  .  .  .  That 
pleased  mother,  because  she  got  most  of  what  she 
wanted,  and  satisfied  dad,  as  it  seemed  neat  and 
simple.  So  Crete  I've  always  been,  and,  so  far 
as  I  know,  the  only  one  in  captivity." 

"Anyway,  it  gives  me  a  first-class  alibi.  Also" 
— there  was  a  wicked  glint  in  David  Kent's  eye — 
"it  reminds  me  of  another  extraordinary  name 
I  once  heard  near  Newport  News.  There  was 
a  little  darky  down  there  called  Fertilizer. " 


76          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

The  expectant  silence  was  an  invitation  to  pro 
ceed. 

"Queer  name,  wasn't  it?  Couldn't  under 
stand  it,  so  I  hunted  up  the  kid's  mother  and  asked 
her  how  she  happened  to  give  her  child  such  an 
outrageous  name.  'Lawsy,  that's  a  mos'  lovely 
name,'  she  told  me.  'It's  jus'  as  simple  an' 
reasonable  as  can  be.  You  see,  Honey,  my  hus 
band's  name  is  Ferdinand  and  my  name's  Elizah, 
so  we  jus'  combined  'em  when  that  there  first 
baby  come  along  and  called  it  Ferdilizah.'  I 
agreed  with  her  that  it  was  a  lovely  name  .  .  . 
and  unique.  But  to  this  day  I  don't  know  the 
child's  sex." 

When  the  laughter  had  subsided  Kent  essayed  a 
return  to  the  former  topic  of  conversation. 

"But  to  get  back  to  the  mountains  ..." 

"The  very  thing  I  most  want  to  do  ...  get 
to  those  mountains,"  interrupted  Crete.  "If  I 
weren't  a  poor  miserable  woman, "  the  young  man 
smiled  to  the  point  of  laughter,  and  received  a 
grimace  for  his  pains,  "a  miserable  woman,  I  say 
— don't  interrupt — I'd  put  a  pack  on  my  back  and 
tramp  up  into  those  hills.  Some  day  you'd  see  me 
waving  to  you  from  the  top  of  the  Chief.  Oh,  I 
could  do  it,  all  right — and  I'd  love  it. "  A  wistful 
smile  crinkled  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "Prob 
ably  the  only  way  I'll  ever  get  such  a  trip  is  by 
marrying  someone  so  there'll  be  a  guide  and 
protector  for  little  me."  She  was  silent  for  a 
minute,  considering  the  possibilities  of  the  bargain. 


Honeymoons,  Perfect  and  Otherwise  77 

Then  suddenly  she  rushed  on,  impelled  by  some 
secret  daydream  vision.  "Remember  how  The 
Virginian  ends?  .  .  .  the  wedding  ...  no  fuss 
or  folderol  .  .  .  and  then  away  they  went 
into  the  hills  on  horseback,  out  into  the  open  with 
just  each  other  and  the  trees  and  the  stars — that 
was  perfect."  She  stopped  there,  and  the  light 
shifted  from  her  eyes  to  her  cheeks,  where  it  burned 
prettily. 

"That,"  said  Kent,  "would  be  a  perfect  honey 


moon.  ' 


Just  then,  perhaps  fortunately,  interruption 
came  in  the  shape  of  James  Failing's  automobile. 

Miss  Colton  was  ready  for  the  drive?  Miss 
Colton  was  not  but  would  be  in  two  minutes. 
Moreover,  this  she  actually  contrived,  and  in  little 
or  no  time  the  car  had  left  the  dust  of  Little  Egypt 
behind  it,  and  three  faces  in  which  disapproval  was 
written  largely. 

As  Kent  composed  page  after  page  of  a  letter 
to  Valentine,  his  mind  wandered  now  and  again 
from  the  task  at  hand,  each  time  his  eyes  straying 
from  the  letter,  and  the  pocket  picture  of  the 
proud-faced  girl  beside  it,  to  the  mountains  in  the 
West. 

"A  perfect  honeymoon."  He  repeated  the 
phrase  musingly.  Scent  of  pines,  music  of  run 
ning  water,  the  stir  of  the  trees,  the  tang  of  snow- 
fields,  the  fragrance  of  mountain  meadows  .  .  . 
all,  in  pleasurable  imagining,  surged  through  his 
mind. 


78          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Poor  girl,'*  he  said,  but  the  compassion 
sounded  hollow,  weakened  somehow  by  a  suspicion 
that  hers  was  an  affluent  poverty. 

His  eyes  caressed  the  portrayed  girl  in  the  dainty 
frame  before  him — a  face  of  fine  features,  calmly 
aristocratic;  deep-eyed,  dark-haired,  to  him  the 
most  beautiful  face  in  the  world. 

So  he  wrote  many  pages  descriptive  of  that 
mountain  journey  he  planned  for  Valentine  and 
himself,  entitling  it  a  perfect  honeymoon,  and 
enlarging  its  details  fondly.  With  a  twinge  of 
regretful  uncertainty  he  wound  up:  "What  is  your 
idea  of  a  perfect  honeymoon?"  .  .  .  Twelve 
days  later  came  the  reply:  "Rough  camping  at 
such  a  time — ugh!  .  .  .  David,  in  the  first  place, 
remember  that  we  are  not  regularly"  (he  smiled 
at  the  word)  "  engaged.  Of  course,  you  were  jok 
ing  ...  if  there's  one  time  in  a  girl's  life  when 
she  wants  to  wear  her  nicest  things,  and  look  her 
prettiest,  and  be  proudest,  it's  then.  A  'perfect 
honeymoon,'  dear,  with  only  stars  and  trees 
for  company  .  .  .  goodness  me,  that  doesn't 
sound  a  bit  entertaining. " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    HORSE    CAVE 

PRESSING  Agamemnon  into  service  as  a  riding 
horse  Kent  started  for  town  toward  evening,  with 
the  letter  just  written  to  Valentine  in  his  pocket. 

The  west,  faced  by  the  rider,  was  already  warm 
with  the  preliminary  glow  of  the  sunset,  like  some 
potter's  oven  slowly  firing. 

"The  Embers  of  the  day  are  red,  beyond  the  murky 

hill, 

The  bed  in  the  darkling  house  is  spread; 
The  great  sky  darkens  overhead  and  the  great  woods 

are  shrill. 

Thus  far  have  I  been  led,  Lord,  by  Thy  will — 
Thus  far  have  I  followed,  Lord,  and  wondered  still." 

"That,"  said  Kent,  regarding  those  dying 
embers  before  him,  "is  perfect." 

He  repeated  the  stanza.  Agamemnon  ambled 
on,  his  thoughts  occupied,  if  at  all,  with  his  supper. 
His  rider  having  found  in  Crete  Colton  a  fellow 
disciple  of  the  gentle  genius  of  the  South  Seas,  felt 
grateful  to  the  girl,  as  though  they  two  had  hit 

79 


8o          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

upon  a  dear  mutual  friend,  and  as  he  pursued  his 
way  fragments  of  Stevensonia  ran  through  his 
mind. 

"The  friendly  cow,  all  red  and  white, 

I  love  with  all  my  heart ; 
She  gives  me  cream  with  all  her  might 

To  eat  with  apple-tart.  " 

There  he  was  obliged  to  laugh  immoderately  at 
the  effect  of  his  declamation  upon  a  jackrabbit, 
who  stood  petrified  at  the  roadside,  with  long  ears 
astonishingly  erect. 

Having  laughed  at  the  rabbit,  he  laughed  at 
himself,  and  forthwith  became  reasonably  serious. 
In  which  mood  the  magnet  of  Valentine  again 
captured  his  thoughts,  and  mingling  with  hair- 
brained  plans  for  hill-land  honeymoons  there 
evolved  the  question,  "Does  Val  know  Steven 
son?"  Probably,  he  decided,  she  did  not,  for 
reading  was  ' '  out  of  her  line. ' '  Anyway,  Val  knew 
so  many  other  things.  The  last  reflection  was 
distinctly  satisfying. 

The  road  to  Farewell  wound  interminably, 
following  the  whims  of  an  old  cattle  trail  from 
which  it  had  developed.  So,  to  save  distance  and, 
like  the  bear  who  went  over  the  mountain,  to  "see 
what  he  could  see, "  Kent  struck  off  'cross  country 
in  the  direction  of  the  town,  Agamemnon  stalking 
stiffly  through  the  sagebrush  and  here  and  there 
making  detours  around  outcroppings  of  lava  rock. 

And  in  the  lea  of  one  of  these,  they  suddenly 


The  Horse  Cave  81 

came  upon  an  unoccupied  automobile.  It  was 
Failing's  car,  halted  where  a  depression  gave  en 
trance  to  an  underground  cave. 

All  at  once  Kent  found  himself  distinctly  ill  at 
ease.  The  last  thing  he  wanted  was  to  be  found 
seemingly  playing  the  part  of  shadow  to  these 
two. 

' '  Hard  a  starboard ! ' '  Kent  tattooed  with  his  heels 
iron-sided  Agamemnon.  "We'll  get  out  of  this. " 

Horse  and  rider  swung  to  the  right.  As  they 
executed  the  flank  retreat,  he  recalled  hearing  of 
the  Horse  Cave,  chanced  upon  some  years  pre 
viously  when  a  band  of  horses  coming  from  the 
range  had  disappeared  miraculously ;  the  buccaroo 
finally  found  them  in  this  cavern,  which  could 
shelter  two  hundred  head. 

Scarcely  was  Agamemnon  under  way  when  Kent 
found  himself  upon  the  edge  of  a  great  hole,  per 
haps  forty  feet  across,  and  well  hidden  by  a  fringe 
of  sagebrush.  Traversing  the  roof  of  the  cave, 
they  had  blundered  upon  this  circular  "skylight" 
where  the  rocky  ceiling  had  fallen  in  of  its  own 
weight. 

Kent  dismounted  to  investigate.  And  as  he 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  open  cup,  suddenly  the 
sound  of  voices  filtered  up  from  among  the 
shadows. 

"My  idea  of  a  honeymoon"  .  .  .  That  much 
Kent  heard  distinctly;  what  followed  was  blurred. 
The  voice  was  Failing's. 

In    spite    of    himself    the    involuntary    eaves- 

6 


82  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

dropper  almost  laughed  aloud.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
had  heard,  and  thought,  and  written  nothing  but 
"honeymoon"  all  day!  But  it  was  annoying  to 
find  Failing  setting  himself  up  as  a  connoisseur  in 
such  matters. 

"That's  disappointing. "  It  was  Crete  Colton's 
low-pitched  voice. 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  you  see,  I've  made  other  arrangements." 
Then  followed  a  peal  of  jolly  laughter,  drowning 
whatever  Failing  said. 

' '  Someone  else  ?  No,  indeed !  I  simply  referred 
to  the  kind  of  honeymoon.  .  .  .  Tastes  differ, 
you  see." 

Then  he  said  something  about  her  seeking  the 
man  to  fill  the  place  .  .  .  just  what  Kent  could 
not  catch,  for  Failing's  peculiar  voice  had  slight 
carrying  power.  But  whatever  the  words  they 
roused  her. 

"I  seek  no  man,  Mr.  Failing!"  she  said  angrily, 
stepping  out  into  the  open. 

Kent  was  struck  by  the  sudden  sternness  of  the 
girl.  Evidently  so  also  was  her  companion,  for 
apology  gushed  forth  quickly. 

Visibly  the  girl  melted,  half  hypnotized,  it  seemed 
to  Kent,  by  the  driving  insistency  of  the  man.  To 
see  her  apparently  so  pliable  left  him  alternately 
hot  with  resentment  and  clammy  cold  with 
apprehension.  .  .  .  Stealthily  he  edged  away 
from  the  opening,  ashamed  of  having  seen  and 
overheard — ashamed,  and  sorry  for  Crete  Colton. 


The  Horse  Cave  83 

The  two  in  the  cave  acted  out  their  little  scene, 
unconscious  of  the  audience  they  had  lost. 

"Won't  you  call  me  Jim?"  Failing  was  very 
close  to  her,  but  well  in  leash. 

The  blue  eyes  faltered  before  the  insistent 
sherry-colored  ones — dull,  as  rich  old  sherry  should 
be,  but  just  then  with  a  glint  of  fire  in  their 
sophisticated  depths. 

"Well  .  .  .  Jim?" 

Failing  launched  into  words  then  .  .  .  impa 
tient,  eager  words,  telling  his  love  and  need  for 
her,  with  a  passionate  undercurrent  of  brutality 
none  too  deeply  hidden  beneath  the  veneer  of  his 
self-control. 

Then  for  long  seconds  they  stood  silent,  face  to 
face,  eye  to  eye,  each  taking  the  measure  of  the 
other.  The  girl  saw  the  male  strength,  the  power, 
even  the  latent  deviltry  of  the  man;  he  was 
bluffly  handsome  when  on  his  mettle,  despite  his 
overlargeness.  The  man  drank  in  the  attractions 
of  the  feminine  figure  before  him,  the  soft  hair, 
the  level  eyes,  the  self-possession  of  the  strong 
inviting  mouth;  and  because  she  was  not  a  girl 
to  trifle  with  he  craved  her  the  more.  .  .  . 

"No,  "said  she. 

"Why?"     He  put  the  query  bluntly. 

"Because  I  don't  care  to." 

He  kept  his  smile. 

"Why?" 

The  doggedness  of  the  tone,  of  his  look,  com 
pelled  her. 


84          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Are  you  sure  you  want  to  know?" 

He  nodded. 

"It's  the  things  you  do. " 

''You  mean — ?"  The  sherry-colored  eyes 
narrowed. 

"The  irrigation  troubles."  Then,  all  at  once, 
she  broke  down — lost,  at  least,  her  poise.  "Jim 
Failing," — she  was  close,  almost  touching  him; 
her  hands  were  before  her,  perhaps  defensively, 
perhaps  in  supplication, — "Jim  Failing,  I  know 
that  there  isn't  water  enough  for  the  South  Canal, 
and  you  know  I  know  it.  What  is  it  to  be — 
more  broken-hearted  settlers  ? ' ' 

The  big  manager's  ruddy  face  darkened. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Isn't  it  true?"     That  was  her  only  answer. 

James  Failing  was  deadly  still.  Slowly  the 
blood  surged  into  his  face — then  swiftly,  until  it 
purpled. 

Crete,  her  head  hanging,  saw  nothing  of  the 
danger  signal. 

"What  about  the  settlers?  Please  ...  oh,  if 
you'll  only  give  them  a  square  deal  ..." 

"The  settlers  be  damned!"  Failing  blazed 
with  wrath.  Would  those  scurvy  settlers  forever 
be  cast  in  his  face  ? 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  the  hot  anger 
left  him,  and  the  big  face  smoothed  out. 

Failing's  eyes  focused  full  upon  the  trim  figure, 
drinking  in  its  girlish  lines  with  a  long,  hungering 
look.  Suddenly  he  stepped  close  beside  her  and 


The  Horse  Cave  85 

boldly,  almost  triumphantly,  he  turned  the  girl's 
face  upward  from  beneath  its  protecting  crown  of 
pale  hair.  .  .  .  With  his  two  great  hands  pressing 
against  her  cheeks  the  manager  smiled  down  into 
Crete's  eyes,  seeking  in  them  an  answering  smile, 
or,  at  least,  a  signal  of  submission.  ...  So  he 
poised  tensely  over  her. 

The  blue  eyes  neither  smiled  nor  faltered,  but 
met  his  steadily,  and  neither  fear  nor  invitation 
was  written  in  their  depths. 

For  an  instant  they  stood  thus,  and  then  the 
muscles  of  James  Failing's  body  all  at  once  re 
laxed,  the  smile  faded  from  his  face,  and  his  hands 
fell  to  his  side. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  .  .  .     Please  .  .  .  forget." 

The  quiet  acceptance,  the  sudden  extinction  of 
his  inner  fire,  came  most  unexpectedly  of  all. 
And  as  Crete  Colton  silently  followed  the  manager 
to  the  car,  she  felt  queerly  grateful. 


CHAPTER  IX 


"UNTIL  THE  RESURRECTION" 


"HARD  TIMES"  was  the  password  as  summer 
ripened.  While  the  rainbow  of  the  future  beck 
oned  as  brightly  as  ever,  the  pot  of  gold  at  its  foot 
seemed  securely  beyond  the  reach  of  even  Fare 
well's  indomitable  optimists.  Irrigation  develop 
ment  was  at  a  standstill,  railroad  rumors  were  few 
and  far  between,  and  even  the  usual  bickerings  of  an 
isolated  community  lagged  as  the  dusts  deepened. 

As  Kent's  apprenticeship  wore  on  he  became 
more  and  more  an  integral  part  of  the  Pioneer's 
little  family  and  increasingly  familiar  with  the 
duties  of  his  adopted  calling.  Nor  did  the  familiar 
ity  breed  contempt.  He  even  learned  to  respect 
the  superlative  importance  of  "locals,"  those 
golden  nuggets  of  country  journalism.  Dog  fights, 
country  shoppers,  and  all  the  multitudinous  inci 
dents  of  everyday  life  became  grist  for  his  pencil, 
ultimately  appearing  as  "Bits  About  Town," 
interspersed  with  "reader  ads."  declaiming  the 
universal  virtues  of  Somebody's  Bitters  or  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Olsen  desired  to  sell  a  calf  of  approved 
ancestry  and  winning  personality. 

86 


" Until  the  Resurrection"  87 

By  degrees  the  young  Easterner  came  to  know 
the  people  of  Farewell  and  through  them  the 
irrigation  story  unfolded.  Gathering  its  various 
threads,  sifting  and  piecing  fragments  together, 
Kent  gradually  constructed  in  his  mind  a  clear 
outline  of  the  situation.  Then  one  night  in  his 
tent  (a  happy-thought  summering  shelter  close 
to  the  river)  he  put  his  findings  in  words,  set 
ting  down  the  history  of  the  project  in  un 
varnished  detail. 

On  the  following  morning  the  young  man  placed 
the  fruit  of  his  labor  on  the  editor's  desk  together 
with  some  tidbits  of  minor  town  news. 

It  was  a  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday  was  publi 
cation  day  for  the  Pioneer.  In  the  shop  the  soft 
clicking  of  type  as  Mother  Jones  marshaled  them 
into  the  stick  was  more  rapidly  determined  than 
upon  an  easy-going  Saturday  when  the  left-overs 
from  the  preceding  issue  were  set  up. 

Pharaoh  sat  in  the  erratic  swivel  chair  cor 
recting  galley  proofs  and  in  the  due  course  of 
his  labors  his  attention  fell  upon  Kent's  offering. 
The  "locals"  he  slapped  on  the  copy  hook  with  a 
grunt  of  approval  and  turned  his  attention  to  the 
irrigation  article. 

Pharaoh  read,  then,  the  story  of  the  Bonanza 
Irrigation  Company  which  he  already  knew  so 
well;  how  the  reclamation  started  with  a  blare 
of  trumpets  and  golden  promise;  how  the  first 
water  was  taken  from  Welcome  River  and  dis 
tributed  out  upon  the  thirsty  soil  through  canals 


88  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

and  ditches;  how  sales  commenced  and  thousands 
of  acres  were  deeded  to  settlers  before  either 
ditches  or  water  were  within  miles  of  the  land ;  how 
unforeseen  obstacles  and  expenses  were  encoun 
tered,  the  costs  far  exceeding  the  estimates;  and 
how  finally,  the  funds  had  all  but  run  out  and  still 
there  were  scores  of  settlers  who  had  purchased,  or 
made  partial  payment  upon,  tracts  and  received 
contracts  for  water  service,  and  who  now  could  not 
get  that  very  water  for  which  they  had  contracted 
and  upon  which  their  entire  fortunes  depended. 
Then,  as  Kent  outlined,  had  come  charges  that 
there  was  not  enough  water  available  in  Welcome 
River  to  supply  the  lands  which  the  State  had 
authorized  for  sale,  even  if  the  necessary  ditches 
could  be  built.  But  this  accusation  was  speedily 
exploded  when  an  official  investigation  and 
measurement  of  the  water  flow  disclosed  the  fact 
that  not  only  was  there  sufficient  water  for  the 
original  segregation  but  for  the  South  Canal 
segregation  as  well.  This  latter  contained  80,000 
acre?  nnd  the  company  proposed  to  reclaim  it 
forthwith. 

There  was  a  glitter  in  Pharaoh's  eye  as  he  turned 
to  the  last  page,  and  a  martial  fervor,  strangely 
foreign  to  it,  warmed  his  gentle  face. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Kent  to  himself,  "I  wonder 
if  he'd  dare  publish  it  ?  "  And  thinking  of  Failing, 
he  grinned. 

Pharaoh  read  on:  "The  company  cannot  ful 
fil  its  contracts  with  settlers  who  have  bought  land. 


"  Until  the  Resurrection  "          89 

Many  of  them  have  not  received  water  and  the 
State  cannot,  or  will  not,  compel  its  delivery.  The 
company  now  proposes  to  secure  more  lands  from 
the  State,  saying  that  the  cash  returns  from  the 
new  project  will  enable  it  to  complete  the  delivery 
system  of  the  first  unit.  That  may  be  true.  Per 
haps  the  cash  from  sales  on  the  new  unit  will  be 
used  to  save  the  settlers  on  the  present  segrega 
tion.  But  if  that  is  permitted,  what  of  those  new 
purchasers?  Will  they  in  turn  be  cast  adrift  and 
ultimately  left  with  contracts  which  cannot  be 
fulfilled  and  acreage  which  cannot  be  watered? 

''Emphatically  we  say  this  must  not  happen. 
And  emphatically  we  declare  that  if  the  present 
plans  are  followed  out,  and  the  company  is  per 
mitted  to  develop  the  South  Canal  segregation  in 
the  way  it  proposes,  those  who  purchase  South 
Canal  land  will  reap  another  harvest  of  tragedy. 

"Our  duty  is  clear.  We  must  all  strive  to  pre 
vent  the  company  obtaining  the  State's  permis 
sion  to  exploit  the  South  Canal  segregation  at  the 
expense  of  the  settler.  That  development  must  be 
permitted  only  when  the  interests  of  the  present 
land  owners,  and  the  new  land  buyers,  are  abso 
lutely  safeguarded. 

"Unalterably  the  Pioneer  will  oppose  the 
South  Canal  unit  plan,  as  that  plan  is  now  pre 
sented.  We  ask  that  the  citizens  of  Farewell  and 
the  settlers  of  the  segregation  join  with  us  in  this 
stand." 

With  the  points  of  his  long  thin  fingers  pressed 


90          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

together,  Pharaoh  contemplated  the  pages  before 
him,  while  their  author  in  turn  watched.  Com 
posedly  one  bony  hand  captured  a  scrap  of  copy 
paper  while  the  other  secured  the  stumpy  pencil 
from  above  his  right  ear. 

"The  Story  of  Our  Disgrace/'  was  the  caption 
he  wrote.  Below  it  he  penciled  this  introduction: 
"For  two  years  the  Pioneer  has  been  silent,  a 
silence  of  bondage.  The  Irrigation  Company  has 
held  the  whip  hand  and  stifled  criticism  from  this 
or  any  other  quarter.  However,  here  for  once 
are  the  true  facts;  the  history  of  the  Bonanza 
Irrigation  Company — what  it  has  done  and  what 
it  seeks  to  do." 

Pharaoh  handed  his  companion  the  paragraph. 

"It's  well  done,"  was  all  he  said. 

Kent,  having  read  this  Declaration  of  Independ 
ence,  regarded  the  tall  spare  man  admiringly,  and 
his  admiration  was  tempered  with  pity.  For  the 
little  Pioneer  to  attack  Failing  seemed  sure  suicide. 
If  only  they  were  powerful  enough  to  fight  the  B.  I. 
C.  in  the  open!  .  .  .  All  at  once  he  thought  of 
his  own  dollars,  idling  three  thousand  miles  away ; 
how  better  could  he  utilize  that  renounced  income 
than  in  such  a  fight? 

"It  would  take  the  roof  off, "  said  Pharaoh, 
tapping  his  lean  fingers. 

Kent  scarcely  heard  him.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  Quixotic  rules.  He,  Valentine,  and  the  Little 
Bishop  had  agreed  to  them  ...  he,  and  his 
editor  friend,  must  sink  or  swim  as  they  were. 


" Until  the  Resurrection"          91 

"I'm  sorry.  I  guess  we  can't."  There  was 
infinite  apology  in  the  simple  statement. 

" Plenty  more  chances,"  Kent  replied  cheerily. 

"Yes  .  .  .  the  time  will  come."  The  editor 
took  from  a  disorderly  drawer  a  sheaf  of  papers 
tied  with  twine.  "We'll  keep  it  with  these. 
You  never  saw  'em,  did  you?"  Kent  shook  his 
head. 

"My  graveyard,"  Pharaoh  explained,  unfasten 
ing  the  string.  ' '  Buried  alive. ' '  He  showed  some 
scores  of  sheets  thick  with  penciled  words.  "If 
you  don't  object,  we'll  add  another  corpse — until 
the  resurrection." 

The  literary  cemetery  was  peopled  by  defunct 
articles,  most  of  them  two-fisted  editorials  dealing 
uncompromisingly  with  compromising  subjects. 
As  the  meaning  of  it  dawned  upon  him,  Kent 
laughed  aloud,  so  infectiously  that  its  proprietor 
chimed  in. 

"Excuse  me  ...  as  a  chief  mourner  I  suppose 
it's  indecent  to  laugh,  but  I  can't  help  it.  The 
graveyard's  a  fine  idea  .  .  .  sort  of  a  safety 
valve." 

"Exactly.  Most  every  week  something  turns 
up  that  doesn't  suit  me.  Perhaps  it's  politics,  or 
county  affairs,  or  local  matters;  often  enough  it's 
this  irrigation  squabble.  So  I  just  turn  loose  and 
write  a  red-hot  roast,  saying  exactly  what  I  think 
as  near  the  way  I'd  like  to  as  the  Lord'll  let  me. 
Somehow  it  sort  of  makes  me  feel  better." 

"It  cools  one  off,"  Kent  agreed. 


92          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Pharaoh  nodded.  It  pleased  him  mightily  not 
to  be  misunderstood. 

"  If  I  published  half  of  this,  there'd  be  no  end  of 
trouble.  I  want  to  .  .  .  most  of  it  .  .  .  like  every 
thing.  But  it  isn't  as  if  we  had  money  .  .  .  we've 
got  to  watch  out,  Mother  and  I."  He  sighed. 
11  And  then  I'm  not  exactly  strong  and  if  anything 
should  happen  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  it's  best  to  play 
safe.  And  these  things," — his  thin  hand  lay 
on  the  discarded  writings,  and,  as  he  hesitated, 
his  eyes  seemed  to  say,  " Please  don't  laugh," — 
"  somehow,  after  I've  written  'em  and  tucked  'em 
away,  it's  easy  to  pretend  they've  been  published 
...  I  actually  feel  as  if  they  had  .  .  .  perhaps 
it's  childish,  but  this  way  .  .  .  why,  they  don't 
do  any  harm.'1 

Therein,  unwittingly,  Pharaoh  gave  a  true 
measure  of  his  mind  and  heart. 

"  Some  day  we'll  run  a  bunch  of  'em  in  a  special 
edition,"  said  Pharaoh  finally,  chuckling.  "We'll 
print  it  in  red  ink. " 

"And  send  a  marked  asbestos  copy  to  Jim 
Failing,"  added  Kent. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  HEAVEN  AND  HELL 

PHARAOH  JONES  received  two  dollars  and 
seventy-five  cents  cash  for  printing  five  hundred 
posters  one  Monday  in  June.  They  were  on  what 
printers  call  one-eighth  stock,  as  Pharaoh  explained 
to  Leon  Callier,  who  gave  the  order,  offering  the 
observation  to  cover  his  astonishment  that  Fail 
ing's  man  should  be  interesting  himself  in  a 
settlers'  meeting. 

"It  would  be  as  reasonable  for  the  condemned 
to  drum  up  attendance  at  a  lynching  bee, "  he 
observed  to  Kent,  when  the  customer  had  left. 
"As  a  rule  Failing's  chief  delight  is  suppressing 
settlers'  meetings.  They  and  he  don't  agree  for 
a  cent." 

"The  exception  proves  the  rule,  you  know," 
replied  the  amateur  assistant. 

"But  why  in  the  name  of  all  that's  holy  should 
he  want  a  meeting  of  the  settlers?"  the  editor 
persisted. 

"Who  said  it's  a  settlers'  meeting?" 

"This  blamed  copy  ...  as  plain  as  the  nose 
on  your  face."  Pharaoh  read  aloud  the  penciled 

93 


94          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

words,  heavily  underlined:  "Important  Meeting  of 
Settlers.  To-night  at  the  Grange  Hall. " 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  plain  enough."  Kent's  skep 
tical  tone  showed  no  conviction.  "But  who's 
calling  the  congregation,  why  are  they  calling  it, 
and  when  the  hat's  passed  who'll  get  the  collec 
tion?  That's  what  /  want  to  know. " 

For  a  space  of  several  seconds  Pharaoh's  mild 
eyes  observed  Kent.  Then  they  took  inventory 
of  the  "copy"  for  the  poster,  following  the 
scrawled  lines  from  top  to  bottom  with  the  preci 
sion  of  long-suffering  practice.  Then  all  at  once 
the  many  wrinkles  of  the  small  face  and  its  over- 
jutting  forehead  visibly  deepened  and  crackled, 
marking  the  spread  of  a  mirthless  smile. 

"You  think ?" 

"I  know!" 

Kent's  ejaculation  turned  the  lines  into  a 
genuine  smile.  Such  a  positive  fellow,  this  young 
Easterner ! 

"Oh,  perhaps  I'm  going  too  strong  on  it, "  Kent 
added.  "But  what's  the  unholy  reason  behind 
this  sudden  interest  in  settlers'  meetings?  And 
why  on  earth  do  they  spring  a  meeting  on  six 
hours'  notice?"  As  Pharaoh  offered  no  explana 
tion  he  answered  himself.  "Because  they  want 
to  run  the  works  their  own  way.  They're  calling 
it  a  settlers'  meeting  so  there'll  be  no  comeback. 
And  as  you  can't  get  the  posters  out  until  the  mid 
dle  of  the  afternoon,  an'  the  meeting's  at  eight,  of 
course  the  chances  are  slim  for  much  of  a  crowd 


On  Heaven  and  Hell  95 

.  .  .  other  than  the  company  folks  who'll  be 
ordered  on  deck.  Am  I  right?" 

Pharaoh  nodded. 

"Well,  it's  not  my  party,  but  I  intend  to  take 
a  hand,  anyway.  While  you're  printing  the  bills, 
I'll  drum  up  attendance  for  Mr.  Failing's  privately 
conducted  settlers'  meeting  .  .  .  without  his  ask 
ing  me  to  take  the  trouble,  and  no  extra  charge  for 
the  advertising." 

Kent  slammed  out,  and  Pharaoh  turned  to  the 
case. 

"The  services,  I  fear,  won't  be  according  to 
schedule,"  sighed  the  editor,  who  scented  trouble. 
And  as  he  slipped  the  big  wooden  type  into  the 
stick  anyone  observing  his  vagrant  smile  might 
reasonably  have  concluded  the  outlook  was  not 
entirely  displeasing  to  the  gentle  printer. 

In  the  meantime,  an  automobile  floundered  on 
its  way  from  Shaniko,  bearing  John  E.  Sanborne, 
State  Water  Master,  an  individual  slight  of 
figure,  pale  of  eye,  and  inclined  to  baldness  and 
pessimism,  the  last  named  state  of  mind  aggra 
vated  just  then  by  the  recurrent  discomforts  of 
the  journey. 

At  the  third  oiow-out  of  the  afternoon  the  little 
man  who  rode  with  the  driver  seemed  as  jovial  as 
ever.  His  good-natured  bantering,  as  he  helped 
pump  up  the  new  tire,  annoyed  Sanborne. 

"You  seem  to  enjoy  work. "  The  bald  engineer 
addressed  the  little  optimist  testily.  His  answer 
was  a  smile  of  assent. 


96          The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"And  being  delayed,  too,  I  suppose?"  persisted 
Sanborne  sourly.  '  *  Gives  us  so  much  opportunity 
to  enjoy  this  grand  country. " 

"It's  a  good  country."  The  little  man  said  it 
with  conviction. 

"Good  as  hell!" 

"Oh,  better!" 

The  little  man  laughed,  the  driver  chuckled,  and 
Sanborne  felt  further  aggrieved. 

"From  an  engineering  standpoint,"  he  cleared 
his  throat  sententiously,  "the  country  is  hopeless. 
It  is  undermined  with  faults.  Irrigation  is  a 
gamble;  the  water  you  have  to-day  may  vanish 
into  the  ground  to-morrow.  Ugh!  Dust,  sage 
brush,  and  juniper!  Irrigation  is  rotten 

"It  is."  Sanborne  scarcely  caught  the  low- 
voiced  agreement. 

"Eh?  Yes,  it  certainly  is.  Oh,  it's  hell  all 
right — as  an  engineer,  I  ought  to  know. " 

"Yes,  you  ought  to.  But  it  isn't  hell.  You're 
up  on  irrigation,  but  not  on  hell,  sir.  As  a  church 
man,  such  things  are  my  specialty,  and  this  is  not 
hell.  In  fact — "  the  little  man  turned  his  back 
on  the  State  Water  Master  and  his  face  to  the 
western  skyline — "to  me  it's  a  lot  like  heaven. " 

An  hour  later  the  car  broke  down  entirely,  and 
the  softly  swearing  driver,  the  vexed  engineer, 
and  the  heaven -seeing  Bishop  set  out  on  foot  for 
Farewell,  a  matter  of  six  dusty  miles. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  SETTLERS'  MEETING 

AT  a  quarter  to  eight  James  Failing  was  as  un 
comfortable  as  he  ever  permitted  himself  to  be. 
In  the  first  place,  Sanborne,  whom  he  wanted,  had 
not  put  in  an  appearance.  Secondly,  a  great  many 
people  whom  he  did  not  want  were  arriving. 
Judging  from  the  lines  of  farm  wagons  and  buggies 
hitched  about  town,  and  the  knots  of  men  cluster 
ing  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalks,  the  meeting  was 
to  be  eminently  successful  from  the  standpoint  of 
attendance.  Yet  its  sponsor  was  anything  but 
pleased.  The  little  snowball  he  had  started 
was  rolling  up  altogether  too  unwieldy  a  bulk. 

Tex  Darling,  the  ditch  rider,  loped  down  the 
street,  dismounted,  and  delivered  a  message  to 
Failing. 

"It's  all  right,  boys,"  the  big  manager  an 
nounced  to  the  group  about  him.  "They  broke 
down  a  few  miles  east  of  town,  and  Dad  Trumble's 
stage'll  pick  'em  up.  You'd  better  get  inside. 
We'll  be  starting  up  soon  now." 

So  the  "Company  crowd,"  as  they  were  called, 
filed  up  the  narrow  outside  stairs  and  through  the 
7  97 


98  The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

only  entrance  to  the  Grange  Hall  above  Jeb  Watter- 
son's  furniture  store.  There  was  sleek  Callier, 
the  sales  manager,  Hartpool,  who  ran  the  com 
pany's  Z  X  ranch,  the  office  force,  and  a  score  of 
huskies  from  the  camps  who  got  their  pay  with 
reasonable  regularity  and  were  disposed  to  do  as 
directed,  whether  it  was  a  matter  of  repairing 
ditches  or  breaking  heads. 

The  benches  filled  then  with  settlers,  sunbrowned, 
unprosperous  men  with  tired,  determined  faces, 
and  most  of  them  young,  as  is  the  way  of  a  new 
country.  There  were  women,  too.  One  of  them 
brought  her  latest  baby,  because  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do  with  it.  None  of  them  were  old  in  years, 
yet  none  seemed  so  young  as  the  men,  because  life 
in  shacks  and  tents  and  cooking  over  sagebrush 
fires  and  grubbing  with  a  mattock  when  there  is 
time  for  it,  and  mothering  another  generation 
of  pioneers,  routs  Youth  prematurely.  With  the 
women  were  Mother  Jones  and  Crete  Colton. 
Pharaoh  and  Kent,  who  came  in  late,  found  seats 
near  the  door. 

Shortly  the  stairs  creaked  beneath  the  ponder 
ous  steps  of  the  manager,  with  the  State  Water 
Master  in  his  wake,  resembling,  as  Kent  thought, 
a  moose  breaking  trail  for  a  sleek  coyote. 

Asahel  Brush,  president  of  the  Water  Users' 
Confederation,  occupied  the  platform  with  Failing 
and  Sanborne.  Brush  was  an  old  fellow  with  a  club 
foot  and  no  love  whatever  for  the  company  and 
its  methods.  But  he  owed  two  years'  water  rent. 


The  Settlers'  Meeting  99 

"You  preside,"  said  Failing  to  him. 

"Preside  yourself,"  was  Brush's  gruff  reply. 
"It's  your  funeral." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,"  Failing  purred.  "This  is 
the  settlers'  affair  .  .  .  you  do  the  honors. " 

And  old  Brush  did,  with  extremely  bad 
grace. 

Sanborne,  after  his  habit,  spoke  interminably. 
He  told  the  old  story.  The  company  deserved 
help,  not  hindrance;  pioneer  capital  in  a  virgin 
field  merited  protection.  But  of  pioneer  settlers 
he  said  little.  He  advised  patience.  It  was  per 
haps  true,  he  admitted,  that  the  canals  just  then 
could  not  serve  all  the  lands  of  the  original  segre 
gation,  but  this  would  be  cared  for  in  due  course. 
For  the  present  the  settlers  should  be  willing  to 
receive  less  than  the  amount  of  water  for  which 
their  contracts  called.  So  far  as  he  was  con 
cerned,  there  would  be  little  consideration  for  com 
plaints  until  the  company  had  been  given  time  to 
enlarge  the  ditches. 

"When  will  that  be?" 

The  query  came  from  the  back  of  the  room. 

"That, "  replied  Sanborne,  with  a  flush  showing 
through  his  sallowness,  "I  shall  leave  for  Mr. 
Failing  to  explain."  And  he  sat  down. 

"You  have  called  this  meeting " 

"You  called  it  yourself!"  As  the  interruption 
punctuated  Failing's  first  sentence,  there  was  a 
stir  of  satisfaction  among  the  settlers. 

"Who's  that?"  growled  Hartpool  beneath  his 


ioo        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

breath.  "The  damned  anarchists!  If  I  had  my 
way  I'd  shut  'em  out. " 

"The  01'  Man  had  a  good  hunch,  anyway," 
Callier  whispered  to  the  ranch  foreman.  "If  so 
many  of  'em  hadn't  got  wind  of  it  we'd  have  been 
all  right.  As  it  is  we'll  slip  it  over  anyway. "  But 
Hartpool,  a  man  of  action,  thought  the  outlook 
darker  than  did  Callier,  the  man  of  plans,  and 
shook  his  head.  For  his  part  he  would  clean  the 
room  and  be  done  with  it. 

"The  meeting  was  called,  anyway, " — Failing 
corrected  himself  with  a  smile  that  was  intended 
to  be  conciliating, — "to  discuss  matters  of  interest 
to  the  settlers.  Mr.  Sanborne  and  I  have  the  good 
of  the  man  on  the  land  closely  at  heart,  and  we've 
worked  out  a  scheme  that  I  am  sure  will  appeal 
to  you  all.  With  your  cooperation  it  can  be 
made  a  success,  and  all  of  us  profit. " 

Failing  talked  hard  and  earnestly,  and  perspired 
fluently.  He  admitted  the  existing  canals  were 
not  large  enough  to  care  for  all  the  lands  that  had 
been  sold  under  them. 

"It  is  simply  a  matter  of  getting  more  water 
from  the  river  and  enlarging  our  canals  and 
ditches. "  There  he  paused,  as  if  he  had  developed 
a  conclusion  entirely  original. 

"Wall,"  drawled  old  Asahel  Brush,  "we're 
glad  you  agree  with  us,  Mister  Failing.  That's 
exactly  what  we've  been  saying  for  more'n  two 
years.  But  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  about 
it?" 


The  Settlers'  Meeting  101 

"That's  just  it. "  Failing  smiled  benignly  upon 
the  chairman. 

The  big  man  looked  quite  triumphant.  Al 
though  Kent  had  always  distrusted  if  not  actively 
disliked  him,  just  then,  as  the  manager  set  forth  his 
case  and  played  his  cards  boldly,  even  though 
realizing  that  they  were  not  stacked  in  his  favor  as 
he  had  planned,  the  young  Easterner  could  not 
help  but  admire  him. 

Failing's  scheme  was  simple.  Briefly,  he  pro 
posed  to  open  up  the  new  South  Canal  segregation, 
which  could  be  watered  at  slight  cost,  sell  the  water 
rights  there  at  a  generous  figure,  and  devote  some 
of  the  profits  to  putting  the  original  segregation 
in  good  shape. 

"What  we  want  is  your  endorsement  of  the 
South  Canal  unit.  Our  contract  with  the  State 
covering  it  expires  in  September.  With  your 
support  we  can  have  it  renewed,  and  by  next 
summer  we  can  start  the  work  there  and  get 
enough  money  to  enlarge  your  canals." 

The  minute  Failing  sat  down  Hartpool  was  on 
his  feet  with  a  resolution  in  which  the  settlers 
went  on  record  endorsing  an  extension  of  the 
contract. 

"All  in  favor  of  the  motion — "  someone  up 
in  front  shouted. 

"Ain't  no  motion  put  to  vote,"  a  hostile  voice 
roared,  and  half  a  dozen  others  added  their  quota 
of  dissension.  Pandemonium  was  gathering  head 
way,  when  the  door  opened  and  Dad  Trumble 


102         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

bounced  into  the  room,  with  the  dust  of  the  road 
still  thick  upon  him  and  his  horsewhip  in  his  hand. 
Behind  the  old  driver  another  figure  entered,  a 
small  thick  man  in  a  black  suit  and  leggings. 

The  interruption  caught  the  attention  of  the 
crowd,  momentarily  calming  the  rising  uproar. 

"Let's  hear  from  Dad  Trumble.  He  knows 
what's  what! " 

Good-naturedly  the  cry  was  taken  up,  for  the 
old  man  was  a  prime  favorite.  While  they  jostled 
him  to  the  front,  the  stocky  newcomer  peered 
around  the  room,  caught  sight  of  Kent,  and  tried 
to  edge  through  the  crowd  to  his  side.  But  he 
could  not  reach  him,  so  scrawling  a  few  words  on 
the  back  of  an  envelope,  he  passed  it  down  the  line. 

"Land  Board  probably  won't  grant  extension 
South  Canal  contract  unless  settlers  O.  K.  it.  Ask 
Failing  why  he  wants  this  endorsement.  RUDD.  " 

Kent  reached  the  signature  with  astonishment. 
The  last  he  had  seen  of  the  Bishop  was  at  the 
Pennoyer  dinner  in  New  York,  and  here  suddenly 
he  was  turning  up  with  the  key  to  the  puzzle! 
Looking  along  the  crowded  bench  he  caught  the 
little  Bishop's  eye  and  signaled  his  thanks.  Then, 
on  an  impulse,  he  was  on  his  feet  demanding 
recognition  so  vehemently  there  was  no  denying 
him.  It  was  Kent's  first  gun  in  the  local  hostili 
ties,  and  although  the  settlers  had  no  idea  what 
he  wanted,  they  knew  him  as  a  friend  of  Pharaoh 
and  indefinitely  scented  more  trouble,  which  was 
becoming  dear  to  their  hearts. 


The  Settlers'  Meeting  103 

"Let's  hear  him!"  they  howled.  And  old 
Asahel  announced  the  floor  was  his. 

11  Mr.  Failing,  why  do  you  want  the  settlers  to  go 
on  record  for  an  extension  of  your  South  Canal 
contract?" 

Failing,  outwardly  as  cool  as  blue  steel,  was  on 
his  feet  smilingly. 

"For  the  good  of  the  settlers  themselves — yes, 
and  the  company's  too,  I  admit.  The  South 
Canal  will  save  us  all.  And  now  may  I  inquire 
your  interest  in  the  matter?" 

The  manager's  counter  question  was  sharp  and 
cold.  But  Kent  ignored  it  and  came  back  again. 

"  If  the  settlers  refuse  to  endorse  this  scheme  for 
robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul,  can  you  get  the  renewal 
yourself?" 

"  Mr.  Kent,  "-—the  manager's  words  were  biting, 
— "this  is  a  question  of  whether  the  settlers  care 
to  help  themselves.  And  as  for  you,  sir,  what 
right  have  you " 

But  hoots  of  disapproval  interrupted  him  there, 
and  the  next  anyone  knew,  old  man  Trumble  had 
annexed  the  floor.  "Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "and 
Mr.  Failing," — an  historic  witticism  which  pro 
voked  peals  of  mirth, — "  I  jes'  want  ter  say  a  word 
or  two  about  this  here  matter.  As  my  frien's 
explain  the  doin's  ter  me,  the  company  wants 
something  from  us  poor  devils  of  settlers.  Now, 
I  ask  yer,  whenever  we  wanted  something,  didn't 
we  have  to  pay  for  it  ...  usually  about  twice?" 

"Yes!    Yes!"   shouted   a   dozen,   with   mixed 


104         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

anger  and  laughter,  while  "Sit  down,'*  "Throw 
him  out,"  and  less  complimentary  phrases  gruffly 
emanated  from  the  front  benches. 

"  An*  what  are  they  handin'  us?  So  far  as  I  can 
see,  nothin'  at  all.  We've  got  contracts  for  water 
and  the  company  says  it  can't  fill  'em.  For  why? 
Because  they're  broke,  they  say.  And  we  all 
know  why  they're  broke — because" — Failing 
was  on  his  feet  threateningly — "yes,  Mr.  Failing, 
I'm  talking  about  you  and  the  other  by  god  offi 
cers  ! ' '  Little  old  Dad  Trumble  blazed  up  full  blast 
directly  in  the  big  manager's  face,  and  there  was 
something  about  the  way  he  grasped  his  whip 
which  kept  Failing  from  coming  close.  The  driver 
was  white  with  anger,  Failing  white  with  some 
thing  that  was  not  entirely  anger,  and  the  crowd 
tensely  still. 

"It's  true,  boys  .  .  .  true  as  gospel!  This 
here  pirating  manager  and  his  gang  have  sucked 
the  company  dry.  Oh,  we  all  know  it,  so  why  not 
speak  out  in  meetin'?  It's  their  high  salaries 
and  sich  that  have  taken  all  the  cash.  That's  why 
there  ain't  enough  money  to  build  the  ditches  to 
bring  us  the  water  we've  paid  for!  An'  now  they 
come  wanting  us  to  help  'em  start  another  steal." 

The  old  man  stopped  for  a  minute,  apparently 
meditating.  Yet  he  was  not  interrupted.  No 
one  would,  or  could,  have  broken  in  on  him  just 
then,  for  his  sudden  fierce  fire  carried  with  it  the 
spirit  of  the  entire  meeting. 

"Are  we  sure  we're  to  get  any  good  out  of  the 


The  Settlers'  Meeting  105 

new  unit?  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know?  Sup 
pose  they  get  the  contract  extended  and  sell  the 
lands.  Will  they  spend  the  money  in  saving  us, 
or  will  they  grab  it  and  leave  us  holding  the  sack?  " 

There  Failing  contrived  to  slip  in  a  sentence. 
About  all  the  crowd  heard  of  it  was  the  words 
"guarantee  bond." 

' '  Another  bygod  guarantee ! ' '  Dad's  voice  was 
bitter  with  scathing  contempt.  "  We've  seen 
contracts,  which  is  guarantees,  until  weVe  got 
the  blind  staggers  studying  'em.  The  State  don't 
help  us  get  our  rights  under  them,  and  why  should 
we  expect  more  out  of  any  other  kind  of  bond. 
Guarantee  hell !  What's  they  worth  to  a  man  who'd 
skunk  a  girl!" 

The  last  phrase  the  old  man  delivered  meas- 
uredly,  word  by  word.  Every  syllable  of  it  pene 
trated  throughout  the  room.  And  everyone 
there  knew  what  he  meant;  knew  that  Failing's 
company,  through  breaking  its  contract  and  not 
delivering  water,  had  wiped  out  all  of  Crete 
Colton's  crop  and  most  of  her  savings. 

The  utter  silence  broke.  Tension  gave  way  in 
suppressed  "ahs. "  Someone  swore. 

"It's  God's  truth,"  said  a  man  in  little  more 
than  a  whisper,  and  was  heard  by  all. 

Then  a  lank  rancher  was  on  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Chairman,  let's  hear  from  the  lady  her 
self.  While  we're  at  it,  let's  have  all  the  truth. " 

There  was  Dad  Trumble  at  the  platform's  edge, 
with  his  threatening  whip,  and  his  white  wrath. 


io6        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

The  sallow  engineer  wilted  in  his  chair.  Failing 
stood  at  the  side  of  the  platform,  red  of  face  and 
then  suddenly  white.  The  look  of  him  fascinated 
Kent;  abruptly  the  enraged  expression  turned 
to  fear,  and  then,  curiously,  there  was  neither 
anger  nor  dread,  but  a  supplication  astonishingly 
out  of  place — a  subdued,  almost  feline  appeal  in 
the  ruddy  eyes,  softening  the  hard  face  until 
its  masculinity  seemed  somehow  to  have  slipped 
away.  And  in  wonder  Kent  turned  from  the 
manager  to  where  the  manager's  suddenly  soft 
eyes  were  looking. 

"Yes,  let's  hear  from  her!" 

The  cry  went  up  for  Crete  Colton.  And  because 
all  were  looking  at  her,  or  toward  her,  none  but 
Kent  caught  that  expression  and  that  mute  mes 
sage  written  on  Failing's  face  for  Crete  Colton's 
own  interpretation. 

The  girl's  mouth  opened  as  if  to  speak,  but  she 
only  wet  her  lips.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  about 
to  rise,  but  instead  she  settled  all  at  once  more 
firmly  in  her  seat.  And  instead  of  looking  to  the 
eager  men  and  women  about  her,  the  blue  eyes 
gazed  steadily  to  the  stage.  .  .  . 

Crete  Colton  did  not  speak.  Instead — after  a 
space — she  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  And  be 
cause  she  was  loved  more  or  less  personally  by 
nearly  every  man  and  woman  in  the  room,  she  was 
urged  no  further. 

Disorder  returned.  For  a  minute  it  looked  as  if 
the  meeting  would  break  up.  Then  Dad  Trumble 


The  Settlers'  Meeting  107 

made  himself  heard  again.  This  time  he  had 
climbed  to  the  platform,  and  as  he  spoke  the  fire 
seemed  gone  out  of  him. 

"There  ain't  no  use  in  a  row,"  he  counseled. 
"I  might  be  wrong.  I  dunno.  Anyway,  it's  up 
to  all  o'  us  now  to  get  right  ca'm  agin,  and  I 
don't  know  anyone  who  can  make  more  headway 
when  it  comes  to  puttin'  kerosine  on  the  scrappy 
waters,  so  ter  speak,  than  our  good  frien*  Bishop 
Rudd." 

Catching  the  drift  of  Dad's  remarks  heads 
craned  around  to  locate  the  Bishop.  Everyone  at 
Farewell  knew  Bishop  Rudd,  and  most  of  those 
who  knew  him  liked  him. 

"So,  ladies  an'  gents,  I'm  a-goin'  to  ask  the 
Bish  to  talk  to  us,  with  the  permission  of  the 
honorable  chairman." 

Bishop  Robert  Rudd,  whose  diocese  was  a  rail- 
roadless  territory  vaster  than  several  eastern 
States,  spoke  simply  and  with  strong  straight 
forward  words  which  won  prompt  attention.  He 
said  that  in  disputes  both  sides  usually  had  a 
measure  of  right,  and  counseled  full  investigation. 

"And  as  we're  here, "  he  continued,  "let  us  take 
the  opportunity  to  thank  the  Almighty  for  what  he 
has  done  for  us,  and  to  pray  for  his  aid  and  forgive 
ness  ...  I  am  sure  you  are  all  willing. " 

So  the  "little  Bishop,"  who  had  conducted 
services  before  the  light  of  sagebrush  fires  at  cattle 
camps,  and  in  saloons  commandeered  for  the 
occasion  on  Sabbath  mornings,  offered  a  simple 


io8         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

prayer.  He  asked  that  strength  be  given  to  make 
more  pure  the  language  of  those  who  supplicated, 
and  especially  that  the  taking  of  the  Lord's  name 
lightly  should  cease.  And  all  joined  with  him  in  a 
resounding  ' '  Amen. ' ' 

It  was  late.  Restless  scraping  of  feet  signaled 
approaching  disbandment  of  the  "settlers*  meet 
ing."  But  ere  the  scraping  grew  louder  the 
company  crowd  played  their  last  card,  following 
up  the  previous  lead. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  it  was  devil-may-care  Hart- 
pool  speaking.  "A  while  back  I  put  a  motion. 
It  was  never  withdrawn,  and  I'd  like  a  vote  on 
it." 

Silence. 

"Question,"  shouted  someone. 

Asahel  Brush  chewed  his  mustache  and  finally 
called  the  vote. 

There  was  a  full-throated  chorus  of  ayes. 

"Contrary  minded." 

"No, "  roared  the  settlers,  and  the  sound  of  it 
sent  red  blood  racing  to  Failing's  face,  and  delight 
to  the  heart  of  Kent. 

Asahel  scratched  his  head.  Parliamentary  pro 
cedure  and  himself  were  far  from  intimate.  Rudd, 
leaning  over,  coached  the  puzzled  presiding  officer. 

"Them  in  favor  of  the  resolution  rise, "  said  the 
chairman.  The  company  crowd  to  a  man  stood 
up. 

Laboriously  old  Asahel  counted  those  standing. 
"Forty-six,  "said  he. 


The  Settlers'  Meeting  109 

' '  The  noes  will  stand. ' '  The  settlers  unlimbered 
their  legs. 

"Th'  baby  don't  count,"  said  someone,  but 
without  getting  a  laugh. 

The  chairman  stabbed  the  air  in  the  direction  of 
each  voter  with  his  burly  forefinger.  "  Forty, 
forty-one,  forty- two,  forty- three — eh,  what's  that  ? 
Forty-four,  forty-five — "  there  he  halted — there 
were  no  more  voters  standing. 

" Licked,  by  God!"  Dad  Trumble's  ejacu 
lation  rang  out  in  the  momentary  silence.  And 
then,  as  the  chairman  was  about  to  pronounce  the 
result  of  his  count,  the  little  old  stage  driver 
again  became  the  central  figure  of  the  gathering. 

' '  Lookyhere ! ' '  His  tone  commanded  full  atten 
tion.  Before,  he  had  been  defiantly  passionate; 
now  he  was  coldly  passionless.  "Jes'  one  word, 
folks  afore  we  go  further.  It's  about  this  South 
Canal.  What's  the  use  of  the  new  segregation 
when  there  ain't  water  enough  for  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Hartpool  barked  at 
him,  ready  to  bound  onto  the  platform. 

"Mean?  Jest  exactly  what  I  say.  There  ain't 
enough  water  in  Welcome  River  to  irrigate  the 
new  unit,  an'  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about  I " 

"Why,  you  old  fool," — Failing's  voice  sounded 
ridiculously  small,  and  his  lips  were  lead  colored 
as  he  licked  them, — "the  engineer's  measurements 
show  there's  plenty  of  water  for  both  segre 
gations." 

"Whose  measurements,  Mister  Failing?     Your 


no        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

engineer's,  eh?  An'  how  much  did  you  pay  him 
to  make  'em?  An'  how  much  will  you  give 
me  not  to  tell  what  I  know?  There  ain't  the 
water,  folks,  an*  lean  prove  it!  Three  years  ago 
when " 

"Dad!" 

The  word  came  sharp,  beseeching  from  the  pale 
lips  of  Crete  Colt  on. 

Then  the  company  men  commenced  hooting, 
while  the  settlers  howled  for  more  information 
about  the  water.  Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the 
uproar  there  was  a  crash  near  the  door — a  lamp 
was  down — a  flicker  of  red  flame,  a  scream,  and 
the  terror-cry,  "Fire!" 

The  thought  of  the  two  slits  of  windows  and  the 
door  with  its  narrow  wooden  stairs  struck  three 
men  simultaneously.  Two  of  them  acted  upon 
the  same  impulse;  with  scrambling  jumps,  exe 
cuted  almost  before  the  slower-witted  realized 
what  transpired,  Kent  and  Rudd  were  beside 
Crete  Colton,  and  each,  in  the  instantaneous 
mental  record  of  that  moment,  realized  a  swift 
satisfaction  at  the  other's  action.  The  third 
man  was  James  Failing.  When  the  lamp  fell  the 
manager  had  been  poised  on  the  edge  of  the  plat 
form.  On  the  instant  of  the  warning  cry  the  big 
man  catapulted  toward  the  door,  scattering  those 
who  blocked  his  path  like  a  mad  bull  charging 
among  sheep. 

In  a  moment  the  uproar  was  uncontrolled. 
Few  knew  what  had  happened.  The  one  thought 


The  Settlers'  Meeting  in 

was  of  the  door.  Swift  panic  had  turned  a  roomful 
of  sane  humans  into  a  den  of  trapped  maniacs. 

There  in  the  midst  of  the  pandemonium,  Bishop 
Rudd  stood  on  one  side,  and  David  Kent  on  the 
other,  and  between  them  was  Crete  Colton,  safe 
for  the  moment  from  the  rush  of  those  whose 
fear  of  self  hurt  was  driving  them  to  worse.  In 
stinctively,  the  girl's  arms  were  about  one  of  the 
men — it  was  Rudd.  For  the  space  of  a  second 
or  two  they  stood,  Crete  making  no  move  or  out 
cry,  while  the  men  warded  off  the  rush. 

Then  into  the  compact  human  mass  about  them 
bolted  the  manager  of  the  Bonanza  Irrigation 
Company,  a  man  gone  mad  with  fear  for  himself. 
And  seeing  him  and  his  madness,  the  little  Bishop 
did  that  which  neither  Crete  Colton  nor  David 
Kent  ever  forgot. 

In  one  fierce  swift  flash  the  little  man  was  at 
the  big  one  and  had  him  out  of  the  crowd  where  he 
was  smashing  for  his  own  life  and  imperiling  a 
score  of  others;  had  him  out,  gasping,  frothing, 
purple  with  rage  and  fear ;  out,  on  his  back,  literally 
thrown  into  a  corner. 

Quicker  than  words  was  it  all.  So  sudden,  so 
unexpected,  so  audacious  that  it  seized  the  at 
tention  of  those  close  at  hand,  and  so  for  a  mo 
ment  saved  them  from  themselves  and  their  fear. 
Bishop  Rudd  had  their  attention.  And  the  little 
Bishop  seized  his  opportunity. 

"God  damn  cowards  to  hell!" 

He  was  on  a  bench.     A  dozen  regarded  him 


ii2        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 


open-mouthed.  The  words  shocked  them,  held 
them  astounded,  fascinated. 

"/  say  God  damn  cowards  all  to  hell!" 

The  little  Bishop  spoke  not  loudly,  but  the  voice 
of  him  was  cool,  penetrating,  bell-like.  And  all  at 
once  the  group  which  heard  and  noted  enlarged, 
and  suddenly  the  magnetic  interest  somehow  spread 
and  others  in  the  swirling  human  whirlpool,  more 
distant,  turned  to  see  the  nature  of  this  new  storm 
center,  and  saw  and  heard  him,  and  their  minds 
became  struck  with  the  stupendous  phenomenon 
of  a  Bishop  blaspheming  so  mightily. 

Then  someone  laughed. 

In  six  seconds  the  panic  was  over.  The  incipi 
ent  fire  was  out,  and  shamefacedly  those  who  had 
smothered  it  by  their  very  impact  drew  apart. 

"Thank  God  for  our  Bishop,"  said  the  mother 
of  the  little  baby.  "Amen"  echoed  a  burly 
rancher,  who  a  minute  before  had  been  crazy  with 
unreasoning  fear. 

"An*  a  while  ago  he  was  a-praying  against 
profanity,"  muttered  Dad  Trumble,  with  moist- 
eyed  approval.  "The  bygoddest  Bishop  ever  I 


see/1 


CHAPTER  XII 

POOR   LITTLE    LUCY 

"IT'S  the  best  way  of  travelin*  there  is," 
declared  Dad  Trumble,  lighting  his  first  pipe  of 
the  day  as  he  crooked  one  stubby  leg  around  the 
saddle  horn  to  face  Rudd  the  more  comfortably. 
"It's  the  acumen  of  comfort,  as  they  say.  This 
way  we  can  go  jest  where  we  like  'thout  being 
bound  by  roads  and  trails,  and  the  whole  blame 
shebang's  right  there  on  the  pack-horse  when  it 
comes  to  eatin'  an'  sleepin'.  Yer  can't  beat  it!" 

Behind  Trumble  and  the  Bishop  rode  Kent,  he 
having  volunteered  to  lead  the  pack-horse  on  this 
first  stretch  of  their  vacation  journey,  which,  to 
the  satisfaction  of  all  three,  had  been  extemporized 
a  few  days  after  the  settlers'  meeting. 

By  sun-up  they  were  well  out  of  town,  abandon 
ing  the  dusty  road  for  the  needle-carpeted  floor  of 
the  forest,  with  the  copper-colored  trunks  of  the 
great  trees  on  either  hand,  massive  pillars  lining 
marvelous  nature-made  aisles.  Here  and  there  a 
blaze,  gashed  in  the  thick  alligator-like  bark  of 
the  pines,  marked  the  trail  which  was  to  lead  them 
up  into  the  mountains. 

8  113 


1 14        /The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

The  sheep  had  not  yet  reached  the  forest  re 
serves,  so  the  bunch  grass  still  showed  brownish 
green,  the  manzanita,  chemise,  and  snowbush 
retained  their  foliage,  and  the  broad  parklike 
reaches  beneath  the  trees  were  unsullied.  A  fort 
night  later,  when  the  herders  drove  their  wooly 
bands  to  the  upland  summer  pastures,  while  bob- 
tailed  dogs  ran  hither  and  thither  doing  the  bid 
ding  of  their  Basque  masters,  and  the  whole 
forest  was  a  welter  of  dust  and  a  babel  of  witless 
bleating,  the  perfection  of  the  pinelands  would  be 
banished. 

But  in  June,  when  the  last  spring  showers  were 
gratefully  fresh  in  memory  and  the  sheep  had  not 
yet  come  from  their  winter  feeding  grounds  in  the 
alfalfa  valleys  to  the  east  and  north,  the  timbered 
country  was  perfection.  The  tree  trunks  stood 
gold  and  brown  and  copper.  Olive  green  the  lofty 
needles  glinted  and  above  their  transparent  pa 
vilion  glowed  a  brillant  sky  of  pure  blue,  with 
never  a  cloud  to  mar  its  infinite  depth.  The 
glossy  lacquered  leaves  of  the  manzanita  danced  in 
the  sunbeams,  reflecting  their  rays  like  myriad  tiny 
mirrors.  The  air  was  an  elixir  of  the  very  love  of 
life;  perfume  of  pines,  pleasant  tang  of  neighbor 
snowfields,  rareness  of  oxygen  bracingly  thin  with 
goodly  altitude,  all  made  a  blend  whose  breathing 
was  enviable  intoxication. 

"It's  a  sacrilege  to  smoke,"  said  the  Bishop,  his 
lips  smilingly  encircling  the  stem  of  a  battered 
corncob. 


Poor  Little  Lucy  115 

"And  a  sacrifice  not  to!"  Kent  added. 

They  nooned  at  the  shady  edge  of  a  little 
meadow,  where  a  spring  bubbled  capriciously  from 
under  the  sod.  The  horses  rolled  and  munched 
their  fill,  while  the  men  ate  and  smoked  and 
then  resaddled. 

The  big  pines  gave  way  to  scrubby  timber, 
mostly  thickets  of  " black  jack"  or  lodgepole  pine, 
poor  scrawny  stuff  clustering  together  so  closely 
that  there  was  no  passage  other  than  the  cut-out 
trail.  Then  all  at  once,  coming  out  upon  a  ridge 
top,  they  looked  across  a  gray  barren  upland 
valley  where  a  forest  fire  had  left  the  tragic  scar 
which  woodmen  call  a  burn.  Beyond  the  valley 
were  towsled  hills,  the  real  foothills,  with  the  great 
pile  of  the  Chief  with  its  gleaming  snowfields 
towering  seemingly  just  above  them. 

A  leisurely  afternoon  they  made  of  it,  ending 
early  at  Little  Lake,  where  the  grass  was  green 
and  high  for  the  horses  and  the  trout  displayed  a 
healthy  interest  in  the  flies  which  ever  and  anon 
met  swift  disaster  as  they  flitted  too  carelessly 
across  the  quiet  water. 

" There  isn't  the  remotest  doubt,"  said  Rudd 
that  evening  as  he  removed  the  backbone  of  his  fifth 
fish,  "that  Dad  is  the  finest  trout  cooker  extant." 

Kent,  equally  busy  as  a  trencherman,  agreed 
heartily. 

"And  speaking  of  trout,  this  feed  wouldn't  be 
complete  without  a  fish  story.  Dad  has  a  world 
beater  .  .  .  tell  it  to  the  Bishop,  Dad. " 


H6        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Dad  Trumble  eyed  the  young  man  coolly. 

"Fish  stories,  as  sick, "  he  opined,  "are  one  thing 
.  .  .  an*  gospel  truth  is  another." 

"I  take  it  this  one  has  a  gospel  guarantee  then, " 
offered  the  Bishop  unsanctimoniously.  ''For  my 
part  I  always  believe  fish  stories  anyway  .  .  . 
especially  if  they're  good  ones. " 

"Like  that  Jonah  whopper?"  Dad  put  in  with 
a  mischievous  twinkle. 

Rudd  nodded  good-naturedly;  he  sought  no  ec 
clesiastical  argument. 

"Wall, "  the  story-teller  started,  with  a  thought 
ful  pull  on  his  pipe,  "th'  first  year  I  came  to 
Farewell — that  was  way  back  yonder  almost  before 
th'  lavy  flows  had  cooled  down — I  caught  a  most 
awfully  nice  healthy  lookin'  trout  jes'  below  the 
big  eddy  where  th'  power  dam's  now.  He  was  sich 
a  right  smart  appearin'  fish  I  didn't  have  the  heart 
to  kill  him  so  I  packed  him  home  careful  as  could 
be  an'  rigged  up  a  big  pan  o'  water  for  him.  At 
fust  he  seemed  as  content  and  cosy  as  a  worm  on 
a  wet  morning. " 

The  old  man  puffed  his  pipe  seriously,  his  face 
clouding  with  the  awakened  memory  of  that  pis 
catorial  tragedy. 

"But  he  was  young,  that  trout  .  .  .  th'  boys 
called  him  Lucy,  although  she  really  was  a  he  ... 
there's  something  so  feminine-like  about  a  real 
gentle  affectionate  fish,  ye  jes'  can't  help  of  us 
ing  girl  cognobles  .  .  .  perhaps  you've  noticed 
that?" 


Poor  Little  Lucy  117 

The  Bishop  acquiesced.  "Of  course — heaven 
bless  the  ladies!" 

"Lucy  was  young  an*  pert,  an*  purty  soon  she 
seemed  to  sort  o'  tire  of  her  restricted  district, 
so  ter  speak.  At  least,  she  got  po'ful  impatient  for 
more  room  to  move  around  in,  like  as  if  she  craved 
to  see  something  of  the  world,  same  as  lots  o'  in 
nocent  young  things."  Dad  blew  his  nose  ve 
hemently.  "An'  she  fretted  around  so  she — that 
is,  he — sloshed  all  the  water  out  of  the  pan  most 
every  day.  At  first  I  kept  filling  it  up  until  I 
began  to  notice  Lucy  seemed  to  enjoy  himself 
most  when  he  was  clean  out  of  water.  Wall,  sir, 
would  you  believe  it,  that  bygod  fish  got  ter  living 
so  much  out  of  water  that  pretty  soon  he  jes' 
naturally  couldn't  stand  the  feel  of  wet  on  him  at 
all.  Onct,  when  he  got  rained  on  good  and  proper, 
he  took  down  with  a  most  alarmin'  chill  .  .  .  had 
ter  keep  him  by  the  stove  for  a  week  before  he 
properly  got  over  it.  Breathe?  Mos'  absolutely 
he  could  breathe  .  .  .  jes'  th'  same's  me  or  you. 
It's  all  a  matter  of  habit,  breathin'  is,  jes'  like 
whisky  or  politicks  .  .  .  yer  kin  get  used  to  most 
any  brand  if  yer  try. " 

"I  suppose  Lucy  lived  to  a  ripe  and  happy  old 
age?"  asked  the  Bishop. 

"I  reckon  not,"  Dad  replied,  again  using  his 
veteran  bandanna  generously.  "It's  a  plumb 
sorrowful  yarn.  Yer  see,  Bish,  little  Lucy  an'  I 
got  ter  be  th'  best  kind  o'  pals  .  .  .  me  havin'  no 
folks  an'  batchin'  that  way.  As  he  got  bigger 


ii8        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

an*  more  aklemated,  as  it  were,  that  bygod  friendly 
little  cuss'd  follow  me  all  around  like  a  dog.  How  ? 
Why,  ain't  yer  never  seen  a  fish  flop?  Lucy  was 
the  prizedest  spryest  flopper  ever  I  set  eyes  on,  an* 
like  the  breathin',  the  more  he  practiced  the 
abler  he  got.  Of 'en  times  I'd  take  him  up  town  in 
my  pocket  to  do  little  tricks  for  the  boys  on  Jeb 
Watterson's  counter.  .  .  .  But  mostly  when  I 
went  away  I'd  leave  Lucy  in  the  cabin,  com'forble 
an'  cosy  on  my  bunk. " 

Silence. 

The  narrator  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"Then  one  day  I  come  away  in  a  hurry  an' 
forgot  to  close  th'  door  ..." 

Again  silence,  still  more  tragic. 

"Well?" 

"Well,"  echoed  Dad  with  a  heartfelt  sigh, 
"that  was  th'  ruination  of  Lucy.  In  them  days 
there  was  a  big  foot-log  'cross  th'  river  jes'  in 
front  of  my  shack.  When  I  was  most  over  it, 
hurrying  to  town,  I  heard  a  sort  o'  familiar  flip- 
flop  behind  me  .  .  .  an'  there  was  Lucy  jes'  a 
bouncing  along  down  the  trail  from  the  door  to 
t'other  end  o'  th'  log.  I  hollered  fer  him  to  go  back 
but  he  jes'  up  and  waved  that  cute  spotted  tail  o' 
his,  contrary  wise,  'smuch  as  ter  say,  'No,  yer 
don't  go  off  and  leave  me,  Ol'  Timer'  .  .  .  that 
there  Lucy  was  the  faithfullest,  affect ionest  critter 
that  ever  was  in  these  parts  .  .  .  and  brains11  .  .  . 
he  paused,  pondering  Lucy's  mental  attributes 
.  .  .  "why,  he  had  brains  all  over  his  body!" 


Poor  Little  Lucy  119 

Another  pause,  to  soothe  the  pains  of  memory 
refreshed.  "Boon's  I  see  Lucy  wouldn't  go  home 
I  started  back  'cross  th'  log  to  head  him  off.  "But 
he  was  floppin'  too  fast  ...  he  beat  me  to  the 
log  an'  started  ker-flippin'  out  along  it  to  meet  me, 
jes'  as  smilin'  an'  happy  as  ever  any  fish  in  the 
world.  Then  all  to  bnct"  .  .  .  the  old  man's 
voice  faltered,  as  he  turned  away  his  head  .  .  . 
"all  to  onct  little  Lucy  caught  his  left  fore 
fin  in  a  sliver  and  lost  his  balance.  .  .  .  There 
he  tetered  for  th'  time  it'd  take  to  snap  yer  finger, 
sort  o'  quivering  on  th'  edge  of  the  log,  six  feet 
above  the  rough  water  .  .  .  then,  jes'  as  I  got 
there  an'  was  reachin'  down  to  save  him  ...  he 
plumb  lost  his  grip  an'  over  he  went!" 

Dad  blew  his  nose  again. 

"The  boys  found  him  where  he  drifted  up  on  the 
sand  below  the  riffle  .  .  .  an'  we  buried  him  .  .  . 
proper  ..." 

"Why,  surely  he  could  swim  ..."  began  the 
Bishop. 

"Not  Lucy  .  .  .  he'd  forgotten  all  about  water 
.  .  .  poor  liV  Lucy  drowned!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LOST  LAKE 

WITH  leisurely  journeying  they  came  the  next 
afternoon  to  the  crest  of  a  bare  ridge  at  the  far 
side  of  Wickiup  Flat  whence  they  looked  down 
upon  the  curious  country  surrounding  Lost  Lake. 
Persistent  snow  patches  covered  the  trail  here  and 
there  despite  the  warming  summer  suns,  and  close 
at  hand  greater  fields  of  snow  projected  down 
among  the  barren  moraines  and  scattered  tama 
rack  trees. 

While  the  other  members  of  the  party  regarded 
the  widespreading  view  before  them,  Dad  Trumble 
repaired  a  cairn  of  stones  marking  the  trail,  mis 
handled  by  winter  storms. 

"Why  the  monument?"  Kent  asked. 

Trumble  reinforced  the  base  of  the  cairn  with  a 
heavy  rock  and  wedged  a  gnarled  bit  of  tamarack 
branch,  whitely  weather  beaten,  into  the  top  of 
the  pile,  so  that  it  stood  out  conspicuously. 

"In  Noo  York  I  reckon  they  label  the  by  god 
streets,  don't  they?"  was  his  laconic  rejoinder. 

Kent,  getting  the  point,  nodded. 

"Ye  see,  Dave,  this  here  avenoo  we're  on  is 

120 


Lost  Lake  121 

pretty  important — leastwise,  it  used  to  be.  It's 
the  main  route  of  the  Ringo  Trail  which  crosses  the 
mountains  from  Farewell  to  the  Valley.  In 
the  old  days  when  everything  east  of  the  divide 
moved  on  horseback,  it  was  the  one  big  way  over 
to  the  Welcome  River  country.  An*  so"  .  .  . 
Dad,  having  given  the  cairn  a  finishing  touch, 
swung  into  his  saddle  ...  "I  mos'  always  try 
to  help  keep  the  old  trail  well  marked.  In  summer 
it's  easy  enough  when  you  can  see  the  landmarks, 
an'  it's  always  plain  sailing  in  the  timber  with  the 
blazes  on  the  trees.  But  give  her  a  foot  of  snow 
here  near  the  top,  an*  a  squall  so  thick  ye  can't 
see  the  hosses'  ears,  an*  the  chances  of  getting 
lost  and  freezing  up  tight  is  elegant. " 

From  their  vantage  point  they  all  looked  at  the 
lake  below  them,  and  its  queer  environs.  Seem 
ingly  a  satanic  force  had  played  fast  and  loose  with 
the  great  piles  of  fire-glazed  rock  round  about.  The 
lake  itself  was  mounted  like  a  gem  in  a  setting 
of  emerald  meadow,  a  tiny  gayly  colored  park- 
place  hemmed  in  by  gray  talus  slopes  and  fan 
tastic  heaps  of  rock,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
shot  out  from  the  side  of  the  Chief,  crashing 
down  about  it  in  million-tonned  avalanches.  Here 
and  there  huge  bowlders  sprawled  in  the  grassy 
field  at  the  water's  edge,  with  purple  lupin  and  the 
tawny  Indian  paintbrush  flower  clustering  beside 
them. 

Lost  Lake,  encompassed  by  the  mountains,  lay 
at  the  very  top  of  the  divide,  or,  at  least,  at  the 


122         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

summit  of  the  pass  where  the  Ringo  Trail  found  a 
way  across  the  range.  From  it  a  deep  quick  stream 
started  boldly  westward  through  the  grassy  mea 
dow,  swirled  surprisedly  around  and  over  some 
^agrant  bowlders,  outposts  of  the  main  avalanche 
and  centuries  ago  wx>rn  glassy  smooth  by  the 
diligent  waters,  and  then,  foaming  bravely,  dashed 
into  the  maelstrom  of  rocks  contesting  further 
passage.  Here  an  arm  of  talus,  spilling  down 
from  the  Chief,  reached  out  across  the  stream, 
barring  its  progress.  The  waters  gurgled  and 
fought  and  sighed,  and  then  all  at  once  disappeared 
through  cracks  and  caverns  into  the  shadow  lands 
below. 

That  evening,  when  the  Bishop  had  taken 
the  axe  and  gone  beyond  the  circle  of  firelight  in 
search  of  more  boughs  for  his  bed,  Kent  sought 
information  from  Dad  Trumble. 

"Most  of  that  settlers'  meeting  was  a  rank 
puzzle  to  me, "  he  offered  encouragingly. 

"Umph!" 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what's  behind  it  all. " 

"Cats  has  been  killed  by  it,"  the  old  man 
remarked  dryly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  curiosity  sometimes  is  fatal, " 
laughed  Kent,  "but  what  did  you  mean  when  you 
said  there  wasn't  enough  water  in  Welcome  River 
to  care  for  the  South  Canal  segregation  as  well  as 
the  original  contract  holders?" 

"I  meant — "  the  older  man  hesitated.  "I 
meant  just  what  I  said.  There  ain't  enough 


Lost  Lake  123 

water,  and  there  never  will  be  until  someone  pulls 
off  another  one  of  those  blamed  miracles." 

"But  the  report  .  .  .  Failing's  engineers  say 
there's  plenty  of  water. " 

' '  Report  hell !  What's  a  report  'tween  friends ? ' ' 
grunted  Dad.  "  It's  this  way,  an'  you  may  as  well 
know  it  now  as  later.  That  engineer's  report  is 
all  bunk  .  .  .  plain  skuldugery  of  the  rankest  sort. 
Failing  brought  a  kid  glove  boy  out  from  the 
a-feet  East  ter  do  th'  work,  and  he  found  right 
soon  there  wasn't  more  than  1800  second  feet  of 
water  on  the  average.  Now,  that's  just  about 
what's  needed  for  the  present  segregation." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?" 

"The  Lord  rewards  virtoo,  1  'spose.  Anyway, 
He  let  me  catch  them  scalawags  with  an  extra 
ace  tucked  in  their  sleeve.  It's  this  way.  That 
summer  when  they  had  the  engineering  gang  out 
I  went  along  as  cook.  We  started  in  up  at  the 
meadows,  and  worked  all  the  way  down  to  Farewell 
with  measurements  and  surveys.  You  see,  there 
never  had  been  any  reg'lar  dope  kept  on  the  river 
before.  That  was  when  they  first  cooked  up  the 
plan  for  the  new  South  Canal  unit,  and  they 
wanted  to  prove  that  there  was  water  enough  to 
handle  it.  Well,  they  proved  it  right  enough. 
Only  the  Lord,  as  I've  remarked,  was  good  and  let 
me  in  on  the  secret. " 

Dad  puffed  his  pipe  and  spat  largely  into  the 
fire. 

"One  night  we  was  campin'  at  Piney  Falls,  ten 


124        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

miles  above  Farewell.  From  the  down-in-the- 
mouth  worrit  look  of  young  Welton — that's  the 
boss  engineer,  you  know — I  suspicioned  some 
thing  was  plumb  wrong.  About  mess  time 
along  comes  Jim  Failing  in  his  team,  looking  as  if 
he'd  lost  his  last  friend  .  .  .  only  I  don't  'spose 
he  ever  did  have  a  reg'lar  friend,  nohow.  When 
grub  was  through  Failing  and  Welton  got  out  th' 
dope  sheets  an'  maps  all  over  the  tables,  messing 
up  my  new  oilcloth  something  scandalous.  Then 
they  went  to  talking,  sort  of  low  voiced,  to  match 
their  spirits,  which  certainly  was  about  at  zero. 
And — oh,  well,  in  course  it  wasn't  egzakly  accord- 
in*  ter  Doyle,  but  I  stuck  tight  in  the  cooktent, 
which  was  dark  so  they  didn't  think  no  one  was 
there.  Then  they  got  a  bit  excited  and  loosened 
up  their  language  so's  I  heard  it  all  easy  as 
snaggin'  fish.  Th'  upshoot  was  that  Welton 
agreed  to  doctor  the  records.  That  night  they 
did  an  awful  lot  more  than  the  Lord  could  get 
away  with,  for  they  boosted  old  Welcome  River 
about  a  thousand  second  feet,  which  was  generous 
of  'em.  I  heard  the  whole  shebang,  and  saw  a 
deal  of  it.  But  I  never  let  on  a  whimper;  sort 
of  thought  it'd  be  best  to  wait  for  the  bygod  upper- 
tuned  moment,  as  the  feller  said." 

Kent,  wondering  why  the  fraud  had  never  been 
discovered,  asked  Dad  if  it  were  not  true  that 
stations  were  maintained  to  measure  and  record 
the  flow  of  Welcome  River.  And  the  old  man  told 
him  that  was  true  enough,  reminding  him,  however, 


Lost  Lake  125 

that  it  was  Failing  himself  who  did  the  measuring 
at  the  rapids  just  above  Farewell  and  one  of  his 
men  at  the  up-river  station.  As  for  the  Govern 
ment  observer  twelve  miles  downstream  at  Eagle 
Ferry,  it  was  a  well-known  local  phenomenon  that 
almost  a  third  of  the  flow  was  supposed  to  vanish 
between  Farewell  and  there,  presumably  through 
subterranean  fissures,  just  as  a  portion  of  the  river 
above  Farewell  actually  disappeared  in  the  lava 
fields. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  the  whole  dirty  business?" 

"Can't."  Dad's  brief  word  cut  short  the 
excursion  of  Kent's  puzzled  mind.  "I  jest  natu 
rally  can't  .  .  .  'twould  break  her  all  up." 

The  girl  again!  Unfathomably  she  seemed  to 
bob  up  as  a  vital  factor  in  all  the  larger  complexi 
ties  of  the  little  world  into  whose  entanglements 
he  had  plunged. 

"Who  is  this  Welton,  anyway?" 

"He's  from  the  East  ...  but  it  shouldn't  be 
held  against  him, "  replied  Dad,  with  a  quizzical 
smile.  "Friend  of  Failing's  backers,  I  under- 
stan'.  A  purty  good  highbrow  engineer,  too,  and 
fair  to  middlin'  ter  look  at — which  fact  the  by  god 
coot  seems  to  savvy.  When  it  comes  ter  dollin' 
up  there  ain't  a  Christmas  tree  as  can  touch 
him." 

"But  what  has  he  to  do  with  Miss  Colton ? " 

Dad  Trumble  regarded  the  fire  silently,  his 
eyes  for  once  without  their  twinkle. 

"Girls,"    said    he,     "is     foolish  .  .  .  mostly. 


126         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

About  this  crooked  report  matter,  why,  I  jest 
naturally  had  to  tell  someone,  so  I  told  her,  way 
back — I  mos'  generally  do  tell  her,  yer  see. "  The 
old  man  smiled  softly.  "An'  then  if  she  didn't 
flamboozle  her  old  bygod  Dad  by  up  an*  tellin'  me 
— but  say,  David,  secrets  is  secrets." 

Thereat  the  old  man  straightened  to  the  full 
majesty  of  his  five  feet  four  inches,  loosed  a  mag 
nificent  flurry  of  sparks  from  the  back  log  with  a 
deft  kick,  and  hallooed  to  the  Bishop. 

Shortly  Rudd  returned,  burdened  with  balsam 
boughs. 

"Say,  Dad,  I  hope  retribution  for  your  sins 
doesn't  overtake  you  to-night  in  the  shape  of  an 
earthquake,  for  there's  an  avalanche  hanging  up 
there  just  waiting  for  a  word  of  encouragement. " 

"I'm  in  good  company  if  it's  coming!"  Dad 
replied  with  a  grin,  spreading  his  blankets,  and  the 
others  squirmed  into  their  sleeping  bags. 

While  the  dying  fire  dwindled  and  the  stars 
gleamed  the  brighter,  David  Kent  lay  cozily,  his 
dreams  more  of  the  day  than  of  the  night.  His 
experiences  since  casting  in  his  fortunes  with 
Farewell  rehearsed  before  his  mind,  and  all  the 
details  of  these  Oregon  days  marshaled  themselves 
in  retrospect,  as  clear  and  sharp  as  the  night  air 
itself.  Curiously,  Kent's  thoughts  were  less  and 
less  of  his  own  problems.  True,  Valentine,  a  joyous 
ultimate  promise,  served  always  as  a  mental 
background;  his  was  a  pilgrimage,  its  goal  attain 
ment  of  the  beautiful  gray  girl.  But  as  he  lay 


Lost  Lake  127 

beneath  the  night  sky,  consciously  reveling  in  his 
aloneness,  it  was  the  problems  of  his  new  friends 
which  most  concerned  him. 

Out  from  the  purple  plush  overhead  the  legion 
ary  stars  smiled  intimately.  The  clean  fragrance 
of  dirt  and  grass  clung  close  to  his  earthy  bed,  and 
the  frosty  nip  of  the  ageing  night  made  that 
blanketed  couch  seem  secure  and  warm  beyond 
belief.  From  the  meadow  where  the  horses 
browsed  there  came  at  lessening  intervals  the 
thud  of  their  hobbled  forefeet  as  they  moved 
from  one  grazing  ground  to  another.  As  their 
appetites  slaked  these  predatory  excursions  waned, 
until  finally  even  the  bell  of  Lazy  Jake,  the  pack- 
horse,  ceased  to  tinkle.  Persistent  through  this 
ultimate  calm  sounded  the  swirl  of  the  running 
water  where  Lost  Lake  overflowed  in  the  short 
lived  stream. 

"So  there  isn't  enough  water  in  Welcome 
River, "  he  mused.  "  If  they  ever  do  get  a  square 
report  that'll  be  discovered  and  the  South  Canal 
scheme  goes  to  blazes. "  He  realized  well  enough 
the  result  meant  no  fresh  funds  from  the  new  unit 
to  put  the  old  in  workable  shape  and  save  the 
settlers.  A  crash  must  come.  And  that  would 
mean  the  canals  left  as  they  were,  leaking  and 
inadequate;  no  more  laterals  to  lead  the  water  to 
the  lands  of  those  who  had  contracted  for  it;  re 
mote  settlers  left  to  their  fate,  waterless,  with 
next  to  no  recourse,  with  none  of  the  expected 
mortgage-lifting  crops  obtainable  and  their  little 


128         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

capital  already  devoured  by  initial  payments — 
investment  small  enough,  perhaps,  reckoned  in 
dollars,  but  enormously  large  in  the  bitter  cur 
rency  of  wasted  years  and  shattered  hopes. 

If  only  there  were  some  miraculous  cure  for  the 
sick  project,  some  neglected  lever  upon  Failing, 
some  desperate  hold  whereby  he  could  be  strangled 
into  full  justice  for  his  settlers,  some  untried  op 
portunity  to  pry  loose  the  contents  of  conser 
vative  moneybags!  And  the  key  of  it  all,  Kent 
saw  clearly,  was  with  the  river  itself — if  the  fatal 
lack  of  water  could  be  remedied ! 

Quiet  indeed  it  was;  too  quiet  even  to  think, 
Kent  felt,  as  he  tried  to  ponder.  Only  thQ 
sound  of  the  running  water  disturbed  the  over 
whelming  hush,  a  babbling,  monotonous  under 
tone.  Almost,  it  seemed  to  him,  there  were 
intelligible  words  in  the  everlasting  music  of  the 
stream.  "Find — us — if — you — can  .  .  .  find — 
us — if — you — can  .  .  .  find — us — if — you — can — " 
over  and  over,  over  and  over  in  his  mind  the  words 
ran,  to  the  tune  of  the  running  water.  There 
seemed  an  insolence  in  the  measured  message — 
a  subtle  invitation — a  veritable  challenge.  .  .  . 

All  at  once  Kent  sat  up  straight  beneath  the 
stars.  For  a  full  minute  he  was  silent,  his  brain 
racing.  Then  a  wild  yell,  triumphant,  joyous, 
surged  into  the  silent  night.  The  startled  horses 
snorted  and  charged  away. 

"Whasmatter?  A  rattler?"  The  Little  Bish 
op's  voice  was  anxious. 


Lost  Lake  129 

But  Kent  only  laughed — laughed  until  the 
sleeping  bag  fell  away  from  his  shoulders. 

"A  hell  of  a  joke!"  Dad  snapped,  rubbing  his 
eyes.  He  had  expected  nothing  less  than  a  ma 
rauding  bear.  "I  suppose, "he  continued  with 
sour  facetiousness,  "you  dreamed  of  a  by  god 
feather  bed  and  woke  us  up  to  hear  about  it?" 

"What  is  it,  Kent?"  Rudd  looked  a  bit 
alarmed. 

The  disturber  of  sleep  assumed  a  serious  air. 

"Nothing  much,"  said  he,  mildly.  "Only  I've 
found  enough  water  for  all  the  settlers " 

"Got  it  with  you?"  Dad  interrupted.  Neither 
practical  jokes  nor  dreams  appealed  to  him  at 
that  time  of  night. 

"No,  Dad.  Not  right  here  .  .  .  but  it's  not 
far  away." 

"Remember,  the  day  of  miracles  is  past,"  ad 
monished  the  Bishop. 

But  the  young  man  smiled  complacently. 

"Watch  me!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NEWS    EXTRAORDINARY 

"AND  did  you  file  on  the  water?" 

"  No,  I  didn't  file.  In  the  first  place, there  wasn't 
time,  and  secondly,  it  is  hardly  necessary  yet." 

"Well,  tell  me  about  it  if  you  care  to."  Pha 
raoh  was  frankly  interested. 

"There  is  nothing  to  it  ...  absolutely  noth 
ing  ! ' '  Kent  spoke  with  enthused  conviction.  ' '  All 
I  have  to  do  is  to  cork  up  the  western  outlet 
and  raise  the  level  of  the  lake  a  bit,  and  then  the 
overflow  will  come  this  way,  just  as  it  did  a  few 
hundred  years  ago." 

Pharaoh,  his  big  brow  puckered  more  thought 
fully  than  ever,  asked  how  much  water  the  over 
flow  contained. 

"I  asked  Rudd  and  Dad,  at  different  times. 
The  Bishop  estimated  five  hundred  second  feet — 
he  had  some  engineering  training,  you  know. 
Dad  said  over  six  hundred.  Anyway,  there's 
an  extraordinary  lot  of  water  boiling  out  of  the 
lake,  what  with  the  drainage  from  the  everlasting 
snow  on  the  Chief  and  the  springs  which  force  up 
from  the  bottom." 

130 


News  Extraordinary  131 

"Well,  say  there  was  five  hundred  feet.  That 
would  be  all  very  nice  if  you  could  get  it  to  Wel 
come  River,  but  how  much  do  you  'spose  that 
would  cost,  and  how  much  would  be  lost  on  the 
way?" 

"I  went  into  that  a  bit  with  Rudd  ..." 

"Oh,  the  Bishop  knows,  does  he?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  and  the  Church  is  about  the  only 
institution  I'd  trust  with  the  secret — unless  it's 
the  Pioneer!"  laughed  Kent.  "Rudd  and  I  did 
a  bit  of  rough  reconnoisance  work,  and  it  looks 
as  if  all  we'd  have  to  do  would  be  to  spill  the  Lost 
Lake  overflow  down  from  its  meadow,  and  gravi 
tation  would  attend  to  the  rest.  There's  an  old 
natural  channel  which  winds  around  all  the  way  to 
Little  Lake,  and  the  spring  overflow  of  Little  Lake 
already  goes  into  Welcome  River  although  at 
present  it  doesn't  amount  to  anything.  In  other 
words,"  the  young  man  juggled  mountain  lakes 
with  humorous  abandon,  "I  propose  to  dump 
Lost  Lake  into  Welcome  River!" 

"Remember  about  Man  proposing  and  the 
Lord  disposing!"  Pharaoh  cautioned.  "But  even 
if  it  was  all  clear  sailing  you'll  have  to  get  your 
water  rights  first,  and  then  comes  the  real  work 
and  the  right  of  way  which  ..." 

"It's  all  through  the  Forest  Reserve  .  .  .  the 
right  of  way  question  is  easy.  As  for  the 
other  ..." 

Pharaoh  guessed  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"Cash?" 


132        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Kent  nodded. 

1  'Got  any?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  and  no!"  He  had  some  money, 
truly  enough,  but  his  agreement  with  Valentine 
forbade  his  touching  it  during  this  trial  year. 

"Well,  you  better  find  out  whether  you  have  or 
you  haven't.  As  forme," — the  editor  scratched 
his  thatched  dome  quizzically, — "I  don't  generally 
have  any  trouble  determining  whether  I'm  a 
millionaire  or  a  pauper — there's  no  'yes-an'-no'  to 
that,  even  for  the  assessor.  Howsoever"  .  .  . 
he  moved  off  toward  the  back  shop  .  .  .  "there's 
a  bit  of  a  job  to  be  set  up,  and  I'll  thank  you 
to  read  the  proofs  while  I  get  at  the  cases. " 

On  Pharaoh's  littered  desk,  flanked  on  one  side 
by  a  blue  Department  of  Agriculture  report 
(dealing  with  the  Boll  Weevil  in  Louisiana)  and 
on  the  other  by  a  neat  pyramid  of  seed  packages 
distributed  by  a  provident  Congressman,  there 
lay  the  planer  proofs  of  that  week's  edition.  Kent 
took  up  the  first  of  these  and  immediately  his  eye 
encountered  an  item  under  a  one-line  head  which 
banished  further  thoughts  of  labor  for  that  day. 

"Capitalist  Coming."     That  was  the  headline. 

"Accompanied  by  Max  Welton,  his  engineer, 
and  by  his  daughter,  Miss  Valentine,  Alton 
Pennoyer,  a  capitalist  of  New  York,  arrived  last 
night."  Kent  rubbed  his  eyes,  glancing  up  as  if 
half  expecting  to  see  the  Pennoyers.  Then  he 
remembered  that  this  item  was  to  appear  in  the 
Pioneer  of  Wednesday,  and  this  was  Tuesday; 


News  Extraordinary  133 

so  the  "last  night"  of  the  proof  actually  meant 
that  very  evening. 

"To-night!     Of  all  the  everlasting  ..." 

But  Kent's  amazed  exclamation  tapered  off  into 
a  gurgle.  The  reason  for  the  Pennoyers'  advent  to 
Farewell  was  apparent  enough  in  the  words  of  the 
proof — words  that  fairly  rose  up  from  the  smudgy 
paper  and  smote  him  with  sudden  and  complete 
confusion. 

"Mr.  Pennoyer  is  one  of  the  largest  stock 
holders  in  the  Bonanza  Irrigation  Company,  and 
is  visiting  the  project  not  only  to  see  his  own 
investment  at  first  hand,  but  also  as  the  repre 
sentative  of  a  group  of  eastern  gentlemen  who,  it 
is  understood,  control  the  company.  According 
to  Manager  Failing,  the  party  will  remain  in  Fare 
well  a  week  or  more.  Speaking  of  this  country 
and  its  prospects,  Mr.  Pennoyer  said — "  the  inky 
mourning  band  of  an  inverted  slug  at  that  point, 
followed  by  the  words  "Statement  to  kom, " 
indicated  that  Editor  Jones  had  not  deemed  it 
expedient  to  indite  Mr.  Pennoyer's  utterances 
for  him  in  advance  of  their  enunciation. 

For  thirty  long  slow  seconds  the  cogs  of  Kent's 
brain  refused  to  mesh. 

Then  they  flew  together  and  the  mechanism 
rushed  madly  on  while  a  mental  moving  picture  of 
all  the  distressing  dilemmas  of  the  new  situation 
whirled  through  his  head  until  it  was  hot  and  his 
hands  were  cold  and  that  part  of  his  stomach  which 
authors  term  the  pit  became  unhappily  numb. 


134        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

For  here  he  had  blundered  face  to  face  with 
the  astounding  fact  that  Valentine's  father  was 
the  financial  angel  of  the  Bonanza  Company 
and  undoubtedly  the  guiding  accomplice  of  its 
manager;  and  here  was  he  plotting  war  upon  that 
company  and  pledged  to  the  cause  of  the  settlers 
in  their  struggle  against  the  machinations  of 
Failing — here  he  stood,  indeed,  well  branded  as  a 
thorn  in  the  side  of  those  who  conducted  and  those 
who  financed  the  B.  I.  C. 

"Hell!"  said  he,  whole-souledly. 

A  pretty  development,  he  thought,  in  this 
Quixotic  cross-continent  quest  of  success — the  sort 
of  success  which  this  very  father  of  Valentine 
demanded.  Not  simply  a  development,  but 
probably  enough  the  very  end  of  it.  Surely  so, 
indeed,  unless  he  changed  his  course  .  .  .  and 
there  his  racing  mind  slowed  down  to  consider 
the  new  notion.  .  .  .  Right-about-face!  Why 
not?  ...  It  had  been  done  before,  and  with 
less  reason.  .  .  .  It  would  be  easy  .  .  .  very,  very 
easy  .  .  .  infinitely  easier  than  persisting  in  the 
present  vexatious  path.  .  .  .  After  all,  why  not? 

Dust  and  desert  and  poverty;  struggle  and 
disappointment  and  failure.  As  Kent  rehearsed 
it  all  his  spirits  sank  lower  and  lower.  For  the 
settlers  and  the  town  the  future  seemed  to  him 
unutterably  dark;  for  himself  he  foresaw  compli 
cations  which  seemingly  could  have  no  other 
ending  than  speedy  ruin  of  all  his  cherished 
desires  and  plans. 


News  Extraordinary  135 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  the  lean  editor,  return 
ing  from  the  shop. 

"Everything." 

With  the  frankness  of  a  troubled  mind,  he 
started  to  pour  forth  his  woes,  but  the  story  was 
scarcely  commenced  when  the  door  of  the  Pioneer's 
office  opened  upon  Crete  Colton.  There  was  dust 
upon  her  shoulders  and  on  the  battered  hat  which 
carelessly  held  captive  the  mass  of  pale  hair ;  while 
the  smile  of  the  blue  sky  itself  seemed  in  her  frank 
eyes  and  the  brown  of  the  sun-kissed  land  reflected 
in  the  tan  of  her  cheeks. 

"'Morning,  folks!"  Then,  catching  the  sober 
look  of  the  two  men,  the  ample  mouth  pulled  down 
at  the  corners  mock-dolorously.  "Oh,  excuse  me. 
Where's  the  corpse?" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  she  dropped  into 
Pharaoh's  chair,  assuming  an  air  of  sanctimonious 
sympathy.  ' '  Do  you  object  to  another  mourner ? ' ' 

"No,  indeed,"  Kent  laughed.  "We're  glad  to 
have  you.  And  as  to  the  corpse,  I'm  in  the  heavy 
role  myself.  At  least,"  he  stated  more  exactly,  "  I 
will  be  soon  enough  .  .  .  probably." 

"Oh  .  .  .  'soon enough  .  .  .  probably/  That's 
odd.  It  sounds  like  a  sacrifice  with  the  hero  in 
clined  to  bolt  at  the  last  minute  and  disappoint 
an  expectant  audience.  As  for  me"  .  .  .  Crete 
pouted  gravely  ...  "I  insist  upon  getting  the 
act  as  advertised.  No  rain  checks. " 

"But  you  see  I  never  contracted  anything," 
Kent  replied. 


136         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Then  there's  nothing  for  you  to  lose." 

"No  .  .  .  nothing.  Nothing,  that  is,  unless"  .  .  . 
the  young  man  hesitated  .  .  .  "unless — oh,  well, 
unless  I  go  ahead."  He  ended  ambiguously. 

Something  of  his  meaning,  of  what  lay  behind 
his  words,  reached  Crete.  Walking  to  the  win 
dow  she  looked  out  upon  the  dismal  dustiness,  the 
parched  plains  and  the  vacant  lots  of  the  city- 
to-be  whose  dreams  had  not  come  true.  Beyond 
all  this  she  could  see  the  waterless  lands  of  the 
segregation,  the  gray  sagebrush  plains,  the  fences 
and  shacks  of  the  settlers,  the  men  working  on 
their  ditches  and  the  women  toiling  with  their 
cookstoves  and  their  babies.  And  still  beyond, 
the  impelling  background  of  all  the  rough  new 
country  in  the  making,  the  force  that  spurred 
forward  all  the  best  elements  of  its  pioneering, 
there  was  clear  to  Crete  Colton  the  ultimate 
end  and  reward  of  it  all — green  turf,  plowed  fields, 
happy  homes,  and  contented  communities.  Her 
eyes,  too,  saw  the  splendid  mountains;  and  they 
seemed  a  beckoning  promise  of  the  future. 

"Are  you  going  ahead  .  .  .  or  back?"  The  girl 
spoke  quietly. 

"Ahead  or  back?"  Kent  repeated  lamely, 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

Turning  from  the  window,  she  faced  him 
squarely. 

"You  know  well  enough."  There  was  weari 
ness  and  disappointment  in  her  tone.  "There's 
a  big  man's  work  here — the  work  of  pioneers  in 


News  Extraordinary  137 

any  new  country.  You  know  what  there  is  to 
be  done,  and  you  know  that  women  can't  do  it  all 
— even  with  the  help  of  dear  Pharaoh  here.  Pro 
vidence  or  a  guilty  conscience  or  something — we 
don't  care  what,"  she  smiled  through  the  mis 
tiness  that  gathered  as  her  words  poured  forth, 
"brought  you  to  deliver  us,  a  Daniel  ..." 

"No,  a  David,  as  it  happens!"  he  broke  in. 

"Well,  David,  then  .  .  .  youVe  come  to  the 
valley  for  battle  and  already  the  giant  has  chal 
lenged  you.  You,  David  Kent,  are  the  only  one 
among  us  who  dare  answer  that  challenge.  Take 
your  five  stones,  David,  and  smite  Goliath's 
brazen  helmet  ..." 

"He's  got  plenty  of  brass,  God  knows, "  growled 
Kent. 

"And  if  you  don't"  .  .  .  she  hesitated  .  .  . 
"well,  if  you  fail  us  Goliath  will  crush  us  all  .  .  ." 

She  was  standing  straight  now,  beside  the 
window,  its  light  full  upon  her  firm  face,  and  her 
blue  eyes  resolutely  upon  his.  "So  it's  really 
David's  move  .  .  .  and  what  will  David  Kent 
do?  Go  forth  and  fight  or  quit?  You  know 
just  what  I  meant  when  I  asked  if  you  are  going 
ahead  or  back  .  .  .  ahead  into  trouble,  probably 
with  no  profit  to  yourself  ...  or  back  to  your  own 
country  and  your  own  people  .  .  .  back  to  com 
fort  and  refinement,  to  a  land  where  folks  believe 
there  isn't  such  a  thing  as  pioneering  to-day  out 
side  of  the  movies. " 

Pharaoh  was  genuinely  troubled.     It  seemed 


138         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

preposterous  to  him  for  Crete  to  lecture  Kent  as 
she  was  doing;  had  not  he  just  told  him  of  his  plans 
with  Lost  Lake — plans  which,  if  successful,  would 
solve  the  whole  problem  and  bring  the  Irrigation 
Company  to  terms? 

"Why,  Crete,"  the  editor  expostulated  mildly, 
"I  can't  make  out  what  you're  driving  at.  You 
talk  as  if  Mr.  Kent  had  thrown  up  the  sponge. " 

"Well,  hasn't  he?    Haven't  you,  Mr.  Kent?" 

For  the  seconds  in  which  Kent  faced  Crete 
Colton  silently,  poor  Pharaoh's  heart  sank.  Then 
his  young  assistant  shook  his  head. 

"Of  course  he  hasn't!"  Pharaoh  ejaculated, 
infinitely  relieved.  With  an  air  of  triumph,  he 
continued:  "The  truth  is,  Crete,  Kent  here  has 
the  company  crowd  backed  off  the  map  .  .  .  he's 
got  those  Philistines  with  their  tails  between  their 
legs." 

Then  the  editor  proceeded  impetuously  to  con 
fide  to  Crete  Colton  what  Kent  had  just  told  him. 
"And  it's  perfectly  feasible,"  he  wound  up  in  a 
glow  of  enthusiasm.  "All  that's  necessary  is  to 
get  the  filings  safely  made  and  then  with  that  stick 
over  his  head  it  won't  be  hard  to  make  Failing 
come  to  terms — hell  have  to  contract  to  use  all 
the  South  Canal  profits  on  the  old  segregation,  eh, 
Kent?" 

"No  more  contracts.  A  bird  in  the  hand  is 
worth  a  flock  in  the  sagebrush.  Failing  won't  get 
that  water,  and  the  chance  that  goes  with  it  to 
clean  up  on  the  new  unit,  unless  he  first  makes 


News  Extraordinary  139 

the  present  settlers  whole,  and  delivers  water  to 
every  acre  of  sold  land. " 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Colton,  and  that  was  all. 

"How  much  water  were  you  short  last  year, 
Crete?"  asked  Pharaoh. 

"Another  two  days  of  the  lateral  would  have 
saved  the  crop.  But  I  let  the  Sorensons  on  the 
ditch  below  me  have  the  water  then — all  their 
alfalfa  depended  upon  it,  and  with  four  children 
and  a  mortgage  they  seemed  to  need  it  worse  than 
I  did.  The  new  people  at  the  end  of  the  ditch 
burned  up  entirely."  She  considered  that  tragedy 
thoughtfully.  "They  were  new  last  year  and 
really  didn't  have  much  in  crops,  but  it  broke 
them  anyway.  They  went  back  to  Wisconsin. " 

"Will  it  be  any  better  this  year,  as  matters 
stand?"  Kent  asked. 

"No,  probably  not.  The  ditches  are  the  same 
size  but  a  little  more  leaky.  They  haven't  spent 
any  money  repairing  them — the  company  declares 
there  isn't  any  more  money.  Down  at  the  Capitol 
the  Land  Board  says  there's  nothing  it  can  do  to 
force  the  company — the  old  story  of  getting  blood 
from  a  turnip.  But  it  doesn't  make  much  differ 
ence  to  me  .  .  .  personally,  that  is,"  she  cor 
rected  herself  with  a  wry  little  smile;  "even  if 
there  was  oodles  of  water  I  couldn't  run  the 
ranch  next  season. ' '  She  studied  one  tanned  wrist 
thoughtfully.  "I'm  broke.  .  .  dead  broke!" 

"As  bad  as  that?" 

She  nodded. 


140        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"And  which  way  are  you  going  .  .  .  ahead  or 
back?" 

He  put  her  own  query  to  her  gently. 

"Oh,  I'm  ...     I'm  stationary." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "that 
you  are  the  one  really  best  qualified  as  a  mourner, 
at  least  so  far  as  logical  reasons  for  mournfulness 
go.  ...  Although  somehow"  ...  he  looked 
with  frank  admiration  at  the  girl's  sunny  face  .  .  . 
"you  never  would  fill  the  bill  very  well,  profession 
ally  speaking. " 

"The  Lord  gave  me  a  sense  of  humor,  anyway," 
she  replied.  "That  helps. " 

"I  reckon  He  overlooked  me  when  it  came  to 
dishing  out  that  asset!"  Pharaoh  exclaimed  with  a 
wry  smile.  "The  situation  doesn't  strike  me  as 
especially  damned  funny!" 

"Well,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  I  wouldn't  call 
you  a  court  jester, "  said  Kent  good-naturedly. 

The  girl,  seeing  deeper  into  his  mood,  sensed 
something  radically  wrong. 

"We've  all  gone  on  the  mourners'  bench  and  con 
fessed,"  said  she.  "  It's  your  turn  now,  Pharaoh." 

And  Pharaoh,  encouraged,  told  what  he  had 
been  withholding  from  Kent,  hesitating,  in  his 
inherent  kindliness,  to  so  soon  oppress  the  high 
spirits  of  the  returned  vacationist  with  his  own 
worries.  Failing  had  served  notice  that  unless 
the  Pioneer  forthwith  got  in  line  approving  the 
South  Canal  unit  there  would  be  no  more  advertis 
ing  and  no  more  job  work. 


News  Extraordinary  141 

"So  he  wants  you  to  boost  the  new  segrega 
tion?"  The  girl's  cool  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"Yes.  He  says  one  good  issue  of  the  Pioneer 
telling  all  about  it — the  way  he  sees  it,  of  course 
— would  settle  the  matter.  He's  to  have  maps 
drawn  and  plates  made  and  .  .  .  and"  .  .  .  the 
distressed  editor  actually  choked  .  .  .  "he's  to 
write  it  all  himself.  There's  to  be  a  big  edition  .  .  . 
a  thousand  extra  copies.  With  that — says  Fail 
ing — he  can  put  the  deal  over.  No  one  much  gets 
out  of  here  to  the  Capitol.  .  \  . " 

"Because  they  haven't  the  price,"  muttered 
Kent  bitterly. 

"So  the  folks  down  there'll  take  the  Pioneer 
about  at  par — they'll  believe  it  says  what  the 
people  up  here  think.  'An  independent  expres 
sion  of  the  desires  of  the  community  '  is  what  he 
calls  it  ...  independent  .  .  .  my  God!"  After 
a  minute  of  silence  he  continued  wearily:  "He's 
reasonably  decent  on  the  money  end.  We  owe 
him  five  hundred  dollars  on  the  land  and  we're 
to  get  a  receipt  for  this,  and  deed,  when  it  is 
delivered." 

"It?"     The  girl's  voice  sounded  very  far  away. 

"The  special  edition  .  .  .  the  boost  for  the 
South  Canal  scheme." 

"  Then  you're  going  to  ..." 

Pharaoh  nodded. 

"  It's  the  only  thing  to  do.  It's  a  losing  fight  .  .  . 
there's  no  use  bucking  this  .  .  .  this  octopus. 
Oh  yes,  I  know  they're  a  measly  lot ;  a  few  strong 


142         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

men  could  clean  them  up  ...  but  that  takes 
money  .  .  .  God!  how  many  things  take  money! 
And  we're  like  you  Crete,  only  worse  .  .  .  with 
out  the  company  business  the  Pioneer'd  go  to 
smash  in  a  month  .  .  .  we'll  have  to  eat  out  of 
it's  hand.  After  all"  .  .  .  his  voice  was  more 
resolute,  but  there  was  no  ring  of  conviction  in  the 
words  .  .  .  "this  is  simply  a  matter  of  business 
.  .  .  strictly  dollars  and  cents.  It's  a  chance 
to  make  a  good  turn. " 

"A  matter  of  business!"  thought  Kent  to  him 
self.  For  a  space  he  pondered  unpleasantly  and 
then  said  aloud  to  Pharaoh:  "What  will  the 
people  say?" 

"Just  what  I'd  say  in  their  place  .  .  .  they'll 
damn  me  from  Hell  to  breakfast.  But  I  won't 
care  .  .  .  that  is,  not  particularly.  What  they 
think  of  me  won't  hurt  the  paper,  anyway,  be 
cause  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  oh,  well,  you  folks  may 
as  well  know  the  whole  thing.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to 
sell  the  Pioneer!" 

Kent  and  Crete  received  the  announcement  in 
astonished  silence. 

"Failing  is  giving  me  an  agreement  to  buy  the 
paper,  if  I  want  to  sell  within  ninety  days.  It's 
a  handsome  price — four  thousand  dollars — more 
than  the  plant  is  really  worth  and  enough  to  pay 
off  everything  and  leave  us  in  the  clear." 

Crete  Colton  drew  an  envelope  from  the  pocket 
of  her  mackinaw. 

"Well,  Pharaoh,"  said  she  quietly,  "it  looks 


News  Extraordinary  143 

as  if  'retreat'  had  sounded.  A  little  while  ago  I 
asked  Mr.  Kent  whether  it  was  ahead  or  back  with 
him — he  evidently  being  in  a  cold  funk  on  the 
country. "  Despite  the  passing  smile,  the  girl's 
caustic  tone  cut.  "As  this  seems  to  have  de 
veloped  into  an  epidemic  of  confessions  I  might 
as  well  make  mine,  too.  This,"  she  held  the 
letter  in  her  brown  hand,  "this  is  an  offer  to  teach 
in  Seattle — the  best  I  ever  had. " 

Kent,  beside  the  window,  caught  the  full  glint  of 
sunshine  upon  the  mountain  flanks,  and  his  spirit 
responded.  After  all,  he  had  at  least  found  himself 
in  time  to  prevent  an  irreparable  break  with  Val 
entine's  father;  Pharaoh  would  attain  a  measure 
of  financial  competency ;  and  lastly,  Crete  Colton, 
the  enigma  of  the  play  behind  whose  scenes  he 
had  chanced,  was  afforded  a  pleasant  opportunity 
to  shake  the  dust  of  Oregon  from  her  feet,  to 
gether  with  her  present  troubles.  The  clouds 
seemed  all  at  once  lined  with  silver. 

But  something  seen  just  then  through  the  win 
dow  banished  every  other  thought. 

"Good  Lord!  Here's  the  stage!"  And  with 
that  David  Kent  bolted  from  the  office. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ARRIVAL  UNEXPECTED 

"WELL,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  let  you,"  Alton 
Pennoyer  had  begrudgingly  conceded  when  Valen 
tine  pressed  her  desire  to  accompany  him  on  the 
western  trip. 

"And,  Dads,"  continued  Valentine,  after  regis 
tering  her  appreciation,  "there's  another  favor. 
No  .  .  .  no!"  she  laughingly  captured  her  fath 
er's  hands,  raised  in  mock  surrender,  "it  isn't 
money  .  .  .  although  of  course  I  will  need  some. 
...  It's  just  that  I  want  you  to  promise  not 
to  tell  anyone  out  there  I'm  going  with  you. " 

' '  Out  there  ?    What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  ? ' ' 

"At  Farewell." 

' '  Umph !  I'd  almost  forgotten .  Young  Kent  is 
there,  eh?  So  that's  the  reason  for  this  sudden 
interest  in  your  poor  old  Dad. " 

Pennoyer  studied  his  daughter  thoughtfully. 

"What  about  this  fellow  anyway,  Val?" 

"Nothing  especial  .  .  .  nothing  definite,  any 
way,"  she  replied,  her  gray  eyes  returning  his 
glance. 

"Does  he  know  you're  coming?" 
144 


Arrival  Unexpected  145 

"No.     And  I  don't  want  him  to. " 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I'd  just  like  to  happen  in  and  see  how  he 
really  is  getting  along.  From  his  letters  .  .  ." 

"Then  he  writes  to  you?" 

"Of  course.     Why  not?" 

Pennoyer  disregarded  the  question. 

"You  remember,  Dads,  how  he  went  out  there — 
wanted  to  make  good  and  all  that  .  .  .  show  me 
he  could  succeed  on  his  own  hook.  He  selected 
Farewell  because  Bishop  Rudd  talked  so  much 
about  it.  At  the  time  I  didn't  know  you  had  any 
interest  there  and  since  I  discovered  it  I've  never 
told  Da — Mr.  Kent.  You'  were  sort  of  mean  not 
to  let  us  know  .  .  .  you  might  have  helped  him. " 

Pennoyer  smiled  at  the  memory  of  his  little 
deception. 

"No,"  said  he,  "it  wasn't  mean.  He  wanted 
to  stand  on  his  own  feet  and  I  didn't  feel  like 
supplying  crutches.  In  fact, "  he  chuckled  dryly, 
"if  my  information  is  correct  he's  not  only  on  his 
feet  but  on  my  toes  as  well!" 

"How,  Dads?" 

"Oh,  the  young  fool's  taken  up  with  a  bunch 
of  anarchist  settlers  who  don't  understand  that 
investors  have  any  rights  and  that  dividends  must 
be  paid — if  they 're  not,  development  stops  short. " 
Conversationally  sidetracked  to  a  business  subject 
Pennoyer 's  voice  hardened.  "I've  sunk  a  lot  of 
good  money  out  there  and  things  haven't  gone 
well — no  profits  and  poor  prospects  of  any.  In- 


146        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

stead,  they  want  me  to  dump  more  cash  into  the 
damned  scheme.  The  settlers  aren't  satisfied  with 
what  they  have  and  demand  all  sorts  of  expen 
sive  improvements.  They  don't  ask — they  de 
mand!  As  if  they  didn't  owe  us  everything!" 

"But  what  has  Mr.  Kent  to  do  with  it?"  Valen 
tine  asked  mildly. 

"Nothing — and  a  good  deal.  It's  absolutely 
none  of  his  business  as  he  doesn't  own  an  acre 
or  a  share  of  stock.  But  somehow  he's  got  tangled 
up  with  the  settlers.  According  to  Failing,  the 
manager,  he's  in  a  fair  way  to  raise  the  regular  devil 
by  stirring  up  a  lot  of  adverse  publicity  in  connec 
tion  with  a  new  deal  we're  launching." 

Thereupon  handsome,  elderly  Alton  Pennoyer, 
gray  of  mustache  and  hair,  told  handsome  young 
Valentine  Pennoyer  the  main  facts  of  the  little 
universe  where  irrigation  was  so  nearly  the  begin 
ning  and  ending  of  all  things.  He  told  it  from  his 
own  standpoint,  of  course,  which  was  precisely 
that  of  countless  thousands  of  well-fed  landlords 
discussing  the  unreasonable  demands  of  their 
tenants. 

He  was  past  the  ripeness  of  middle  age,  and  she 
was  scarce  full  bloomed;  the  girl  was  tall  and 
slender,  and  the  man  substantially  stocky.  But 
the  same  imperiousness  was  written  in  the  clean- 
cut  lines  of  the  two  faces,  the  same  shrewdness  in 
the  cool  eyes,  the  same  quick  blood  richly  colored 
the  old  and  the  young  cheeks,  and  the  same  some 
thing  of  selfish  determination  lurked  about  the 


Arrival  Unexpected  147 

two  mouths.  Father  and  daughter  were  credita 
ble  examples  of  American  commercial  aristocracy 
whose  inalienable  birthrights  are  competence  and 
prosperity. 

Valentine  may  not  have  understood  all  the  de 
tails  of  her  father's  exposition  of  the  affairs  of  the 
Bonanza  Irrigation  Company,  but  certain  salient 
features  she  did  grasp.  Among  them  was  the  fact 
that  if  the  South  Canal  unit  could  be  launched 
Alton  Pennoyer  was  certain  of  a  handsome  profit, 
whereas  if  it  were  blocked  the  company  seemed 
fated  to  flounder  further  in  a  deepening  mire  of 
debt  and  difficulty.  And  crowning  it  all  was  the 
startling  realization  that  her  own  would-be  fiance 
was  the  very  one  whose  endeavors,  if  persisted  in, 
might  defeat  her  parent's  efforts. 

"It's  all  Dads'  fault  .  .  .  every  bit  of  it !"  she 
pouted  at  her  mirror  that  evening,  uncontradicted. 
If  he  had  only  told  her,  or  David,  of  his  interest 
in  the  Irrigation  Company  there  would  have  been 
no  trouble. 

By  the  time  she  was  ready  for  bed  she  had 
evolved  a  plan.  It  was  ridiculously  simple;  she 
would  call  David  off  and  make  him  work  with  her 
father  instead  of  against  him — provided  Alton 
Pennoyer  placed  his  approval  upon  a  certain  life 
contract  which  she  conceded  might  as  well  be 
entered  into  now  as  at  any  later  time  between 
herself  and  David  Kent.  It  was  a  fair  bargain. 
As  a  man  of  bargains  and  business,  her  father 
must  admit  its  equity. 


148         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Ten  days  later  Alton  Pennoyer,  Valentine,  and 
Max  Wei  ton,  an  engineer  who  had  already  put  in  a 
summer  at  Farewell  on  the  payroll  of  the  Irrigation 
Company,  started  westward. 

Father  and  daughter  were  scarcely  settled  in 
the  latter 's  drawing  room  when  the  Pullman  con 
ductor  appeared  with  a  telegram.  After  glancing 
at  the  typewritten  sheet,  Pennoyer  handed  it  to 
Valentine  who  read : 

"Have  assurances  favorable  action  if  local  pub 
lic  opinion  not  hostile.  If  you  approve  intend 
to  arrange  issue  special  edition  newspaper  here 
boosting  project.  This  will  cinch  matter.  Heartily 
recommend  it.  Can  buy  paper  outright  later  if 
desired  and  so  control  situation.  Wire. 

•'FAILING." 

"Which  means?"  she  asked. 

"That  Failing  is  no  fool.  And  my  dear,  if  we 
pull  this  off  I  don't  anticipate  much  further  trouble 
— not  even  from  your  devoted  admirer!"  He 
smiled  grimly.  "As  a  prospective  son-in-law  (his 
own  prospecting,  of  course)  it  strikes  me  that 
young  man  of  yours  is  a  good  deal  of  an  ass. " 

"What  did  you  say?"  Valentine  inquired 
when  her  father  had  finished  his  reply  to  the  tele 
gram. 

' '  Just  this : '  I  approve  your  plan. ' '  Then,  with 
mock  seriousness  he  added,  "Do  you?" 

"Yes  ...  if  it  works!"  and  they  both  smiled, 
each  foreseeing  the  successful  culmination  of  a 
different  scheme. 


Arrival  Unexpected  149 

During  the  next  four  days  Valentine  had  ample 
time  to  analyze  her  plans  and  herself  (a  favorite 
occupation,  never  very  productive)  while  she  saw 
from  her  window  the  shores  of  Lake  Michigan, 
the  everlasting  agricultural  reaches  of  the  con 
tinental  midregions,  the  sagebrush  semi-deserts 
and  "bad  lands"  of  the  intermountain  country, 
and,  finally,  the  magnificent  Columbia. 

To  Valentine  the  trip  was  tiresome,  and  the 
end  of  it  dusty,  dirty,  and  quite  lacking  the  inspi 
ration  she  had  expected.  However,  Welton  was 
attentive  and  amusing.  He  talked  well  and  never 
seemed  travel  stained.  Before  they  crossed  the 
Missouri  she  had  dubbed  him  "The  Life  Saver, "  a 
title  won  by  persistent  good  humor  and  constant 
efforts  to  make  the  journey  as  pleasant  as  possible. 
Despite  the  leavening  of  his  presence,  however, 
she  was  nearly  sick  of  her  bargain  after  the  dirty 
journey  from  the  Columbia  south  to  Shaniko. 
And  at  Shaniko  everything  went  wrong. 

"A  message  for  you, "  said  the  clerk  at  the  Co 
lumbia  Southern  Hotel,  handing  Mr.  Pennoyer  an 
envelope.  ' l  It  came  in  by  telephone  this  morning. ' ' 

The  communication  was  from  Failing,  stating 
that  as  the  company  auto  was  out  of  commission 
with  no  substitute  available  he  had  arranged  for  a 
special  stage  to  bring  the  travelers  from  Shaniko 
to  Farewell.  They  were  to  commence  the  one- 
hundred-mile  drive  at  daybreak.  With  a  light 
rig  and  frequent  changes  of  horses  they  should 
reach  Farewell  by  dark. 


150        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

That  night  was  a  miserable  one  for  the  Penno- 
yers.  The  hotel's  best  rooms  were  directly  over  the 
bar,  and  the  bar  was  prosperously  noisy.  It  was 
midnight  before  Valentine  dropped  into  a  fitful 
sleep.  Almost  immediately,  it  seemed  to  her, 
someone  pounded  on  her  door. 

"Five  o'clock!" 

The  mirror  was  cracked,  the  water  in  the  thick 
white  pitcher  was  icy  cold.  The  room  smelt 
musty,  out-of-doors  looked  tragically  cold  and 
gray,  and  her  feelings  corresponded  with  the  en 
vironment.  Worse  than  that,  she  seemed  unable 
to  appear  other  than  she  felt,  which  made  her 
furious.  She  was  sick  of  it  all.  Oregon  she  hated. 
Everything  connected  with  the  trip  she  detested. 
Anyone  who  enthused  over  such  a  country  she 
pitied. 

By  the  time  the  stage  rattled  beneath  the 
juniper  trees  on  the  outskirts  of  Farewell,  she 
was  utterly  at  the  end  of  her  tether.  Never  had 
she  been  so  weary,  so  uncomfortable,  and  so  be 
draggled.  And  withal  she  was  bitterly  resentful 
because  she  felt  at  her  worst  when  she  craved  to 
look  her  best. 

Yet  when  the  stage  halted  in  front  of  Farewell 
Inn  and  the  cloud  of  dust  had  dissipated  Valentine 
felt  curiously  disappointed.  David  was  not  there 
to  greet  her! 

To  be  sure,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned  Kent 
had  no  reason  to  believe  her  nearer  than  Man 
hattan  Island,  and  ten  minutes  previously  she  had 


Arrival  Unexpected  151 

thought  herself  unwilling  to  meet  him.  But  all 
that  made  no  difference  just  then.  After  a  hun 
dred  miles  of  eating  dust  she  had  no  appetite  for 
logic.  The  fact  of  the  minute  was  that  David 
had  failed  her. 

Scarcely  had  Alton  Pennoyer  and  his  daughter 
been  assisted  from  the  vehicle  when  behind  them 
sounded  the  strangest  voice  Valentine  had  ever 
heard.  It  started  with  an  impressive  boom,  and 
then  abruptly  jumped  six  notes  to  a  vocal  altitude 
ridiculously  unmasculine. 

"How  do  you  do!  Mr.  Pennoyer — ah,  Mr. 
Welton — glad  to  see  you.  Enchanted,  I'm  sure, 
Miss  Pennoyer  .  .  .  this  is  indeed  an  honor  for 
Farewell."  ' 

As  Failing  was  explaining  the  difficulties  with 
the  automobile,  the  sound  of  running  footsteps 
clattering  along  the  wooden  sidewalk  caused  the 
little  group  to  turn. 

"David!"  cried  Valentine.  And  then,  as  he 
came  nearer,  "My  goodness!  Why,  you're  .  .  ." 
but  whatever  she  intended  to  say  was  left  unsaid. 

Disregarding  the  others,  David  Kent  went 
straight  up  to  Valentine  and  clasping  her  two  hands 
looked  full  in  her  face.  It  was  a  searching  look, 
questioning  .  .  .  and  then  all  at  once  radiant. 

Nor  was  the  girl's  sudden  silence  and  the  young 
man's  frank  adoration  lost  upon  the  others.  Fail 
ing,  astonished  at  the  unexpected  development, 
showed  his  perplexity.  Welton,  who  up  to  then 
had  heard  little  of  Kent,  smirked  outwardly 


152         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

and  boiled  inwardly.  Alton  Pennoyer  positively 
snorted. 

Rarely  did  Valentine  Pennoyer  lose  command 
of  a  situation,  and  her  poise,  routed  temporarily, 
speedily  returned  to  her. 

She  withdrew  her  hands  from  Kent's. 

"Yes,  you've  changed  .  .  .  no  doubt  of  that, " 
her  tone  was  back  at  normal.  She  strove  to  be 
super-commonplace. 

"Have  I?"  Kent  could  not  draw  his  eyes 
away.  "For  the  better?"  he  inquired  eagerly. 

She  laughed,  and  there  was  a  passing  hint  of 
bitterness  in  the  laughter.  All  at  once  Valentine 
recalled  how  weary  she  was  and  how  poorly  her 
beauty  was  prepared  for  such  a  meeting  by  the 
dust  and  dirt  of  the  long  ride,  her  soiled  and 
wrinkled  clothing,  and  her  lack  of  rest.  It  annoyed 
her.  It  seemed  unfair  .  .  .  and  on  top  of  that 
here  was  Kent  attempting  to  monopolize  her,  al 
most  to  assert  proprietary  rights. 

"No  .  .  .  not  for  the  better."  Her  patrician 
head  was  held  high  as  she  appraised  him.  "You're 
brown,  but  I  suppose  one  has  to  be  either  that  or 
dirty  in  this  wretched  country.  Then  you  look 
older.  And  as  for  clothes"  .  .  .  she  smiled  a 
trifle  cynically  .  .  .  "if  you  want  to  know,  I 
think  they're  positively  dreadful.  You  look  like 
.  .  .  why,  at  home  you'd  actually  pass  for  a 
rowdy!" 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you!"  Kent  mocked 
good-naturedly,  but  the  sunniness  left  his  face. 


Arrival  Unexpected  153 

Dapper  Welton,  catching  the  note  of  sarcasm, 
beamed. 

"Ahem!"  boomed  Alton  Pennoyer  in  a  pre 
paratory  way.  It  was  high  time  to  break  up  this 
ridiculous  t£te-&-t£te. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Kent,"  said  the  financier 
dryly,  stepping  forward  and  taking  the  young 
man's  hand. 

1 '  Thanks.     I  hope  you  are ! " 

"This  is  Mr.  Welton  .  .  .  Max,  Mr.  Kent  .  .  . 
an  old  friend  of  .  .  ."  it  was  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  to  say  "Valentine's"  but  instead  he  sub 
stituted  "of  the  family." 

1 '  How  are  you  ? ' '  Welton  put  the  routine  greet 
ing  disinterestedly. 

Something  in  the  natty  appearance  of  the 
engineer  annoyed  Kent  inexplicably.  It  was  a 
case  of  no  love  at  first  sight. 

"Oh,  I'm  pretty  rowdyish,  thanks." 

Kent  grinned.  Welton  looked  surprised,  Val 
entine  annoyed. 

"What  next,  Failing?"  inquired  Pennoyer,  in 
dicating  the  luggage.  "Oh,  I  beg  pardon  .  .  . 
of  course  you  know  our  friend  here?"  his  gesture 
embraced  Kent. 

Failing's  countenance  bespoke  the  bubbling  en 
thusiasm  of  a  professional  mourner. 

"I  have  had  .  .  .  that  pleasure."  The  man 
ager  rubbed  together  his  beefy  hands,  the  wrinkles 
deepening  about  his  eyes  in  what  was  intended 
to  be  a  smile. 


154        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

As  they  walked  to  the  Company  House,  Valen 
tine  chatted  with  Kent  who  carried  her  bags. 

"Mr.  Failing  doesn't  exactly  love  you,  does 
he?" 

"Not  exactly." 

His  apparent  preoccupation  annoyed  her. 

"You're  not  very  enthusiastic,"  she  pouted. 

"About  what?" 

"Me!" 

"  Good  Lord. "  That  was  all  he  said  for  a  space. 
Then  seriously:  "You're  changed  too,  Val  ...  or 
perhaps  it's  just  I." 

"Do  I  look  badly?"  Her  words  followed  her 
thoughts.  Instinctively  she  coiled  back  a  vagrant 
lock  of  hair. 

"Badly?"  He  looked  at  her  then,  from  the 
disheveled  dark  hair  framing  her  refined  face  to 
the  tips  'of  her  well  clad  feet,  and  his  eyes  saw 
nothing  that  did  not  seem  perfection.  "Badly?" 
he  echoed,  and  surely  the  wonder  in  the  word  and 
the  expression  of  the  speaker's  face  must  have 
gratified  the  eternal  feminine  thirst  for  homage. 
After  a  long  second  of  silence  Kent  continued, 
as  if  it  were  difficult  to  find  adequate  words  to 
convey  his  thoughts.  "Val,  see  that  mountain 
...  so  white  and  wonderfully,  perfectly  beauti 
ful?" 

They  were  on  the  green  lawn  before  the  Com 
pany  House,  almost  at  the  very  edge  of  Welcome 
River.  Across  the  water,  which  was  blue  with  the 
reflection  of  the  sky,  there  were  fine  straight  pine 


Arrival  Unexpected  155 

trees,  and  thirty  miles  beyond  rose  the  Chief. 
With  the  dark  pines  before  it  and  the  blue  sky 
behind  it,  the  great  white  mountain  did  indeed 
seem  perfection. 

"It  is  attractive,  David/' 

"Attractive?  Why,  to  me  that's  the  most 
beautiful  view  in  the  world  .  .  .  the  most  abso 
lutely  perfect  thing  .  .  .  except  one.11  Turning 
from  the  beautiful  mountain  to  the  beautiful  girl, 
he  looked  full  at  her.  He  had  a  queer  trick  of 
unexpected  seriousness. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  am  looking  at  something 
more  perfect  even  than  my  mountain." 

She  blushed  at  this  pretty  answer  to  her  ques 
tion,  dropping  him  a  mock  courtesy  to  hide  it. 

"And  perhaps"  ...  he  followed  his  train  of 
thought  to  its  ending,  speaking  half  to  himself  .  .  . 
"perhaps  it's  equally  unattainable." 

"What  did  you  say?  I  didn't  hear."  The 
low  words  had  escaped  her.  He  laughed  shortly. 

"It's  a  long  way  to  the  mountain  as  the  trail 
goes  ..." 

"Very  cold,  that  mountain  country!"  Max 
Welton  interrupted,  just  then  coming  up  behind 
them. 

Turning  to  the  engineer  she  expressed  her 
agreement  with  a  smiling  nod.  "It  does  look  so. 
You  know,  Mr.  Welton,  I  don't  believe  I'd  like 
mountains  .  .  .  except  at  a  distance. " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ACCIDENT    UNFORTUNATE 

ON  the  afternoon  following  her  arrival,  Kent 
and  Valentine  walked  leisurely  to  the  base  of 
the  Pilot,  chatting  on  the  way  of  trivial  things 
and  safely  far-away  people. 

"Can  you  make  it?"     He  indicated  the  climb. 

"Good  gracious!"  Valentine  looked  up  at  the 
butte  and  down  at  her  feet.  "I'm  not  keen  on 
mountain  climbing,"  she  demurred. 

"When  in  Rome  .  .  ."  he  laughed. 

"I  don't  believe  the  best  families  on  the  Forum 
climbed  the  Seven  Hills." 

"Well,  we  haven't  any  best  families  out  here 
.  .  .  thank  Heaven. " 

"David — you  sound  like  a  Hull  House  lecturer 
or  an  anarchist  ...  or  something.  And  be 
sides"  .  .  .  she  added  more  seriously  .  .  .  "you 
talk  about  'we*  as  if  you  belonged  here — which 
of  course  you  don't. " 

"No,  I  suppose  I  don't  belong,  Val,"  he  re 
plied  dryly.  "But  it's  hard  not  to  get  the  habit 
out  here  of  talking  about  'our'  country  and  'our' 
town — and  boasting  about  it,  too.  You  see,  in 

156 


Accident  Unfortunate  157 

the  West  everyone  is  wonderfully  proud  of  every 
thing  from  its  grain  to  its"  ...  he  was  going  to 
say  "girls"  but  substituted  .  .  .  " to  its  gophers. 
It's  local  patriotism  in  the  n'th  degree. " 

"Or  conceit?"  Valentine  interposed  disinter 
estedly.  She  was  bored  enough  with  the  West 
and  its  ways  without  having  Kent  discourse  upon 
them. 

He  laughed. 

"Perhaps  .  .  .  and  I'm  getting  as  bad  as  the 
rest.  You  didn't  like  my  old  Roman  adage,  so 
how's  this?  When  in  Paris  be  a  parasite  .  .  . 
and  I'll  feel  like  one  if  we  don't  get  a  move  on. " 

A  third  of  the  way  up  the  butte  Valentine 
awoke  to  the  realization  that  it  was  about  three 
times  higher,  and  harder  to  negotiate  than  she 
had  anticipated.  With  two  thirds  of  the  stony 
trail  behind,  she  was  ready  to  quit.  But  encour 
aged  by  Kent's  reassurances  that  the  sunset  view 
from  the  top  was  worth  all  the  effort,  and  even 
more  effectively  aided  by  his  willing  arm,  the  girl 
scrambled  with  increasing  weariness  up  the  steep 
trail,  thoroughly  uncomfortable  and  rapidly  be 
coming  as  short  of  patience  as  she  was  of  breath. 

"Are  those  animal  tracks,  David?"  she  inquired 
during  a  brief  halt,  pointing  to  lines  which  wound, 
corkscrewlike,  around  and  up  the  side  of  the  butte. 
While  actually  formed  by  water  draining  down 
the  soft  slopes  they  curiously  resembled  trails. 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"But  surely  there  aren't  any  wild  beasts    so* 


158        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

near  town?"  There  was  a  note  of  alarm  in  her 
voice. 

"  Don't  worry,  Val  .  .  .  they're  not  really 
dangerous.  Their  scientific  name  is  sambucus 
pubens  but  hereabout  they're  called  lava  hops. 
In  such  cases  I  always  prefer  the  local  no-men-cla- 
ture!"  Here  a  severe  fit  of  coughing  seized  the 
elucidating  scientist ;  so  severe,  in  fact,  that  he  was 
obliged  to  turn  his  back  to  Valentine. 

"They're  certainly  queer  beasts,"  Kent  con 
tinued,  his  eyes  intent  on  the  western  sky  line. 
''Notice  how  all  the  trails — paths,  you  know — 
curve  around  to  the  right  as  they  climb  upward? 
That's  because  the  lava  hops  have  their  right 
legs  longer  than  their  left  ones.  Curious  pro 
vision  of  thoughtful  old  mother  nature,  that."  .  .  . 
Again  a  short  spasm  of  coughing  interrupted  him. 
.  .  .  "You  see,  by  always  working  around  to  the 
right  as  they  climb,  their  right  legs  being  longer, 
it  keeps  their  bodies  level  no  matter  how  steep 
the  hill.  And  of  course  when  they  get  on  flat 
ground  the  difference  in  the  length  of  their  legs 
gives  them  a  sort  of  hopping  gait,  and  from  that 
and  the  fact  that  they  are  found  only  in  this  lava 
country  they  get  their  name  'lava  hop." 

It  was  Valentine's  first  intimate  encounter  with 
the  wonders  of  western  natural  history.  What  a 
capital  story  to  take  home  for  retelling  at  dinners 
next  season!  If  she  only  actually  could  see  one! 

"As  to  their  looks"  .  .  .  Kent  answered  her 
query  .  .  .  "why,  they're  a  bit  like  a  cougar 


Accident  Unfortunate  159 

when  it  comes  to  their  hide,"  .  .  .  she  shivered 
.  .  .  "but  not  ferocious  .  .  .  not  very  that  is. 
They're  larger  than  a  badger  and  a  bit  smaller 
than  the  average  black  bear.  Why"  ...  he 
leaned  over  a  bit  of  dust  beside  them  ...  "a 
lava  hop's  been  right  here!" 

Sure  enough,  an  animal's  track  showed  in  the 
brown  dirt. 

"It  looks  a  little  like  a  dog/'  Valentine  offered 
sagely. 

"Yes,  so  it  does.  But  notice  this  hind  pad" — 
with  his  finger  he  indicated  a  part  of  the  track. 
"There  is  where  the  difference  comes.  But  let's 
get  on  to  the  top.  Perhaps  on  the  way  down  we'll 
meet  a  sambucus  pubens  face  to  face  .  .  .  they 
usually  come  out  after  sundown. " 

The  Pilot  was  the  show  spot,  and  the  showing 
spot,  of  Farewell.  An  obliging  providence  had 
placed  it  as  an  observation  tower  whence  all  the 
details  of  the  surrounding  country  might  be 
viewed.  Visitors  were  dragged  to  its  summit 
to  become  acquainted  with  the  topography  of  the 
region.  Timber  buyers  spied  out  the  lie  of  the 
land  from  its  convenient  top,  determining  just 
where  the  forests  sloped  most  advantageously  to 
mill  sites  on  the  river,  and  then  going  forth  and 
buying  their  timber  claims  from  the  settlers  for 
about  a  third  of  their  ultimate  market  value.  And 
tight-mouthed  railroad  engineers,  quietly  recon- 
noitering,  had  spent  many  an  hour  on  the  Pilot 
studying  the  far-reaching  railroadless  land  which 


160        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

lay  stretched  in  a  nature-made  map  at  their  feet, 
and  later  silently  slipping  away  in  the  guise  of 
timber  cruisers,  stock  buyers,  or  land  seekers. 

Finally  they  reached  the  summit  and  rested  on 
the  western  lip  of  the  old  crater,  with  Farewell  and 
a  goodly  portion  of  Central  Oregon  spread  out 
before  them,  while  Kent  talked  of  the  various 
landmarks  and  told  incidents  of  the  country's 
brief  history.  West  and  south  from  the  town, 
whose  scattered  roofs  they  glimpsed  among  the 
trees  where  Welcome  River  wound  like  a  silver 
band,  the  pine  lands  billowed  up  from  the  level 
country  and  over  the  foothills  to  the  white  peaks 
of  the  mountain  range. 

Away  from  the  mountains  he  showed  her  the 
huge  plain  stretching  like  a  flat  gray  table  for 
forty  miles,  and  tilted  a  bit  to  the  east  and  north, 
quite  perfectly  planned  for  irrigation.  To  the 
east,  near  the  Pilot,  were  many  square  patches 
of  green,  checkerboarding  dun  squares.  The 
green,  he  told  her,  were  alfalfa  fields,  and  the  dun 
sagebrush  comprised  the  others,  where  irrigation 
had  as  yet  left  the  land  unleavened.  The  canals 
and  laterals  showed  like  thin  white  threads  wind 
ing  here  and  there  across  the  country. 

"That  is  just  the  beginning,"  declared  Kent. 
"Beyond  that  ridge  to  the  southeast  there's  a 
country  as  big  as  Massachusetts,  and  to-day  there 
aren't  more  than  five  hundred  people  in  it  and  I 
don't  suppose  that  many  acres  of  cultivated  soil. 
Nothing  but  jackrabbits,  cattle,  and  fuzztails. " 


Accident  Unfortunate  161 

"Fuzztails?"  she  repeated. 

"That's  what  they  call  the  range  horses — 
scrubby  little  cayuses  hard  enough  to  thrive  on  a 
barbed  wire  diet.  And  Val,"  ...  his  enthusiasm 
carried  him  on,  ...  "don't  you  see  what  all  this 
means?  It's  the  story  of  the  frontier  all  over 
again.  The  big  chances  have  not  gone.  There's 
a  million  acres  over  there  beyond  Cow  Ridge,  most 
of  it  wheat  land  as  good  as  the  Palouse  country." 

But  there  was  no  answering  chord  of  enthusiasm 
in  the  girl.  From  Cow  Ridge  behind  which,  her 
companion  declared,  lay  an  untouched  El  Dorado, 
her  eyes  returned  to  the  little  patches  of  irrigated 
land  and  the  larger  areas  of  brown  waste  untouched 
by  water. 

"David,"  she  sighed  whimsically,  "I'm  afraid 
you've  been  bitten  by  this  western  booster  bug. 
Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  get  away  before 
you're  inoculated?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  He  put  the 
question  in  a  low,  serious  tone,  looking  straight 
at  her. 

"Well,"  she  parried,  "what  do  you  want  to  do 
yourself?" 

"I  ...  don't  know."  He  was  silent  for  a 
minute.  "Yes;  I  do  know  .  .  .  one  thing  .  .  . 
the  only  important  thing,  Val  dear  ...  I  want 
to  marry  you!" 

She  laughed  lightly. 

"But  that's  nothing  new!" 

She  thought  him  very  handsome  as  he  bent  over 


162         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

her,  despite  the  shabby  clothes — so  brown  and 
strong.  Bending  still  further,  suddenly  he  took 
the  beautiful  face  in  his  two  hands  and  pressed  his 
mouth  to  her  red  lips  in  a  fiery  kiss,  crushing  her 
to  him  for  a  passionate  moment. 

She  had  been  silent,  unresisting.  Then,  as  he 
drew  back,  indignation  surged  within  her,  yet, 
somehow,  subtly  tempered  with  satisfaction.  But 
dominating  her  tangled  emotions  was  amazement 
at  the  impetuous  abandon  of  her  lover.  Could 
this  surprising  man  be  the  same  David  Kent — 
that  patient,  trustworthy,  always  safe  David, 
whose  placid  nature  she  had  toyed  with  so  often? 

"David!"  Her  heart  suddenly  harbored  genu 
ine  apprehension.  For  her  transgressed  lips  some 
how  failed  to  utter  the  words  of  reproach  she  knew 
they  should,  and  her  cool  blood  for  once  raced 
hotly  through  her  body. 

It  was  Kent  who  controlled  himself  first. 

"I'm  sorry,  Val,"  he  said,  simply.  "Just 
couldn't  help  it."  He  was  still  half  drunk  with 
desire  to  embrace  her,  and  to  evade  the  temptation 
drew  his  eyes  from  the  lovely  girl,  who  in  her  agi 
tation  appeared  doubly  alluring.  "I  guess  it  must 
be  the  air  out  here.  I  used  to  be  able  to  behave 
myself." 

His  back  was  toward  her  now  and  her  eyes  were 
upon  him.  Had  he  turned  just  then  something 
in  those  misty  gray-blue  eyes  might  have  told  him 
that  there  are  times  when  behaving  one's  self  need 
not  be  the  ultimate  goal  of  manly  ambition. 


Accident  Unfortunate  163 

"  Perhaps, "  she  ventured,  and  her  voice  faltered 
wistfully,  "  perhaps  it's  your  clothes  .  .  .  Mr. 
Rowdy!11 

"You'll  forgive  me?" 

"No!"  The  warning  note  in  her  voice  checked 
his  advance.  "No  .  .  .  I'm  not  angry  .  .  .  not 
very,  that  is!  .  .  .  only  you  mustn't  ever  do  it 
again.  You  see,"  she  went  on,  with  regained 
steadiness,  "it's  not  only  .  .  .  well,  let's  say 
unseemly,  but  it's  also  breaking  your  contract — 
the  rules  of  the  game." 

"I  only  promised  not  to  ask  you  to  marry  me 
until  .  .  .  let's  see  .  .  .  until  next  May.  That's 
when  the  year  is  up." 

She  laughed. 

"And  what  do  you  call  your  recent  actions?" 

"Oh,  that  was  simply  .  .  .  well,  showing  my 
appreciation  for  the  beauties  of  nature!" 

"Don't  do  it  again,  David,  that's  all."  She 
was  serious.  "And  before  we  go  I  want  some 
information." 

"Oh  Lord!"  said  Kent  to  himself.  "Here 
comes  trouble." 

"David,  who  is  the  man  fighting  my  father?" 

" I  believe  his  name  is  .  .  .  Kent."  He  looked 
at  her  gravely.  "That  is,  Val,  I  understand  he 
has  been  making  a  little  trouble,  and  is  in  a  fair 
way  to  make  more. " 

"You  didn't  come  here  to  meddle  in  other 
people's  business." 

She  was  on  her  own  ground  now.     Her  intense 


164        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

loyalty  to  her  father  and  her  belief  in  the  absolute 
right  of  all  that  concerned  him  was  in  a  way  even 
more  fundamental  than  her  own  personal  selfish 
ness.  So  it  was  small  wonder  that  Kent's  lengthy 
explanation  of  the  situation  had  slight  effect. 

He  told  the  girl  what  had  happened  to  the 
water  users  and  what  was  destined  to  overtake 
them.  From  where  they  stood  the  brown  level 
lands  of  the  South  Canal  segregation  were  visible, 
and  he  explained  how  the  profits  of  this  new  unit 
were  sought  by  the  company  while  at  the  same 
time  it  ignored  the  rights  and  almost  the  very 
existence  of  the  original  settlers  who  had  bought 
land  and  were  waiting  for  water. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  they  sell  this  new  land?" 
she  asked  when  she  had  heard  him  through.  "You 
say  yourself  the  profits  would  be  enough  to  fix 
up  the  old  ditches  and  all  the  rest  of  it. " 

The  chief  reason  why  the  extra  acreage  should 
not  be  sold,  as  Kent  was  aware,  was  the  lack  of 
sufficient  water  in  Welcome  River  to  care  for  the 
new  as  well  as  the  original  segregation.  But  he 
doubted  whether  Alton  Pennoyer  knew  that  his 
engineer's  report  on  the  river's  flow  was  crooked, 
and  that  sufficient  water  actually  did  not  exist. 
So  he  attempted  no  answer  to  her  question. 

"Dads  is  going  to  be  positively  wild."  Valen 
tine  herself  cared  little  for  the  paternal  anger, 
being  always  able  to  circumvent  it,  but  when 
directed  at  others  she  had  the  highest  respect  for 
its  devastating  efficiency. 


Accident  Unfortunate  165 

Kent  nodded.  "My  friend  Failing  will  help 
that  along." 

"But  it  would  be  very  easy  to  put  him  under 
obligation  to  you.  And  I  think"  .  .  .  she  con 
tinued,  regarding  him  keenly  .  .  .  "that  would 
help  ...  in  other  directions. " 

"I've  considered  that,"  he  said,  almost  sharply. 
"In  fact,  that's  about  all  I  have  thought  about 
since  yesterday  when  I  found  out  who  was  be 
hind  this  blamed  irrigating  company  ..." 

"Yesterday?  You  only  knew  it  yesterday?" 
She  was  genuinely  surprised,  and  still  more  so 
when  he  told  her  the  circumstances  of  his  double 
discovery  of  her  father's  interest  in  the  B.  I.  C. 
and  her  own  coming. 

"You'd  have  me  quit?  Val,  I  thought  you 
wanted  me  to  make  good  ...  to  stick  to  some 
thing  until  I  finished  it  and  came  out  on  top." 

"But  where  are  you  getting?" 

"Only  into  trouble,  I  suppose,"  he  said  bitterly. 

Valentine  was  annoyed.  She  had  expected 
to  find  Kent  reasonably  ready  to  fall  in  with  her 
suggestion  to  quit  Farewell  and  its  vexatious  set 
tlers,  especially  if  by  so  doing  he  should  win  the 
favor  of  her  father.  And  instead  of  jumping  at  the 
chance,  he  inclined  to  platitudes  about  making 
good. 

"  It  is  time  we  started  back, "  she  declared.  The 
sun  was  already  enveloped  behind  the  purple 
outlines  of  the  Chief,  and  the  long  shadows  of  the 
range  suddenly  engulfed  them. 


i66        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Before  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  butte 
the  dusk  had  thickened  into  near-darkness.  But 
disregarding  the  difficulties  of  picking  their  way, 
and  because  it  was  really  easier  to  go  fast  than 
slow,  they  raced  down  the  final  pitch  of  the  descent 
in  regular  schoolboy  fashion.  And  just  at  the 
end  of  it  the  girl's  feet  tripped  over  a  stone, 
throwing  her  headlong  down  the  steep  slope. 

She  lay  so  quiet  he  thought  she  had  fainted. 
But  Valentine  was  simply  fighting  for  self  control. 
Pride  kept  her  from  whimpering,  or  from  speaking 
until  she  was  sure  of  herself. 

"Ouch!  It's  my  ankle,  David."  She  twisted 
in  pain.  "I  turned  it  on  that  stone  ...  oh! 
but  it  hurts." 

Kent  started  to  unlace  her  shoe,  and  finding 
the  handling  too  painful,  slashed  it  asunder  with 
his  knife.  Further  than  releasing  the  foot  and 
resting  it  as  comfortably  as  possible,  there  seemed 
nothing  he  could  do  as  no  water  was  available. 
So  he  placed  the  sweater  he  had  been  carrying 
under  and  around  the  girl's  shoulders,  stripped  off 
his  flannel  shirt  and  wrapped  the  swelling  ankle  in 
it,  as  warmly  and  restfully  as  possible. 

"  I  hate  to  leave  you  alone,  but  it  won't  take  me 
over  half  an  hour  to  get  a  rig,  Val, "  he  said  gently, 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "  I'll  run  all  the  way  in." 

Until  he  spoke  she  had  considered  nothing  but 
the  pain  of  the  minute. 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  me?"  There  was 
terror  in  her  voice. 


Accident  Unfortunate  167 

"Yes,  Val."  He  tightened  his  belt.  "It's 
the  only  thing  to  do.  We  might  wait  here  all  night 
without  a  soul  coming  this  way.  And  the  longer  I 
keep  you  from  a  doctor  the  worse  the  ankle  will 
get." 

"Oh!"  said  she,  and  that  was  all. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry  ..."  which  indeed  he  was. 
"Try  to  be  cheerful  .  .  .  good-by!" 

With  that  he  was  off,  in  an  orderly  dog  trot, 
intent  upon  conserving  his  energy  so  as  to  cover 
the  long  mile  to  Farewell  as  speedily  as  possible. 

"Oh!  "  said  the  girl  again,  and  this  time  the  word 
ended  in  a  sob.  She  looked  around  at  the  gather 
ing  darkness,  a  little  wildly,  and  up  at  the  sides 
of  the  butte  marked  with  the  strange  corkscrew 
trails. 

"Cheerful!"  By  now  she  was  crying  outright. 
She  wished  for  David  at  her  side — for  some 
protector — above  everything  else.  And  David 
was  pounding  along  the  dusty  road  to  town. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FIRST   AID 

"!F  you  tell,  it  will  ruiiTme."  The  tone  was 
masculine  and  resentful. 

"If  I  don't  it  may  ruin  hundreds. "  It  was  a 
woman's  voice,  pitched  low  and  infinitely  troubled. 

"But  I  did  it  under  orders."  The  man's  voice 
sounded  querulous.  "Loyalty  is  a  first  rule  of 
business  .  .  .  anyone  knows  that. " 

"How  about  loyalty  to  one's  self?" 

"Don't  preach  please."  He  was  curt  now. 
"  That's  all  pretty  enough  in  story  books.  There's 
highbrow  ethics,  and  business  ethics  .  .  .  they 
generally  don't  mix  worth  a  cent." 

"Did  someone  tell  you  to  fake  those  records?" 
There  was  a  quiver  of  hope  in  the  words. 

The  answer  was  a  growl  and  an  oath.  They 
were  quite  near  now,  and  Valentine  could  hear  the 
light  lava  gravel  crunch  beneath  the  man's  shoes 
as  he  turned  upon  his  companion. 

"I  don't  care  who  did  it  or  how  it  was  done!" 
he  snarled,  and  to  the  listening  girl  the  voice 
sounded  oddly  familiar.  "I  stand  by  my  guns — 

168 


First  Aid  169 

and  by  the  Old  Man.  As  for  you,  young  lady, 
my  advice  is  to  keep  your  precious  mouth  shut. " 

In  the  black  silence  following  the  outbreak 
the  unsuspected  member  of  the  triangle  thought 
she  heard  a  sob,  quickly  stifled. 

"It  was  all  a  mistake  between  us  two,"  the 
man's  voice  was  gentler.  "Plain  folly,  that's 
what  it  was  .  .  .  just  like  my  telling  you  about 
the  report.  It's  ended  now  .  .  .  absolutely  ended. 
That's  best  for  both  of  us  ...  we're  awake  after 
a  fool  dream.  I'm  glad  .  .  .  damn  glad!  Well, 
I'm  off  to  town.  Yes,  I  know  you  don't  mind 
the  dark.  Good-by  .  .  .  and  remember!" 

For  a  moment  Valentine  thought  she  was 
deserted  again,  and  would  have  called  as  the  man's 
footfalls  receded,  but  all  at  once  the  half  choking 
sound  of  sobs  that  would  not  be  denied  was  close 
at  hand.  She  tried  to  turn  on  her  side,  then  to- 
see  something,  if  possible,  of  the  companion  fate 
seemed  to  have  guided  to  her.  The  movement 
brought  a  distressing  throb  in  her  ankle. 

"Ouch!"  she  cried  as  the  hot  pain  shot  through 
it. 

"Oh!  What's  that?"  The  other  one  was 
startled  now. 

"It's  me!"  called  Valentine,  with  neither  logic 
nor  grammar. 

Then  the  other  woman  took  shape  among  the 
night  shadows  and,  coming  to  Valentine,  tended 
her  with  efficient  gentleness,  the  while  asking  her 
the  how  and  the  why  of  her  situation. 


170        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Briefly  Valentine  answered  that  she  had  sprained 
her  ankle  racing  down  the  butte  and  that  her  com 
panion  had  left  her  there  while  he  went  to  town 
for  aid. 

"Who  did  you  say  it  was?  I  wonder  if  he 
knows  where  to  get  a  physician  and  a  rig. " 

"Mr.  Kent." 

"Oh." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"Yes,  I  know  him. "  The  other  girl  said  it  quite 
colorlessly,  yet  something  in  her  tone — perhaps 
in  its  very  evenness — piqued  Valentine. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  has  enough  intelligence  to 
get  me  out  of  this  fix  he  got  me  into?"  she  asked. 

Instead  of  answering,  the  other  knelt  down, 
and  in  a  few  seconds  a  tiny  blaze  of  twigs  and 
branches  of  the  oily  sagebrush  sprang  up  from 
beneath  her  hands.  As  she  turned  from  the 
kindling  fire,  Valentine  for  the  first  time  saw  the 
open  strong  face  of  this  one  whom  chance  had  sent 
through  the  night  to  her  side. 

"Perhaps  that  will  make  it  a  little  warmer,  Miss 
Pennoy er . ' '  The  fair-haired  girl  smiled  pleasantly . 

"How  do  you  know  my  name?" 

"I  didn't — but  I  guessed  it.  Most  everyone 
knows  that  Alton  Pennoyer  and  his  daughter  are 
'in  these  parts. ' ' 

"And  yours?" 

"  Crete  Colton." 

Then  a  short  silence.  The  fire  warmed  Valen 
tine,  its  glow  and  the  companionship  cheered  her, 


First  Aid  171 

and  for  the  moment  her  ankle  was  less  trouble 
some. 

"I  suppose  you  and  Mr.  .  .  .  er,  that  is,  David, 
have  often  climbed  the  Pilot?"  The  eastern  girl 
tried  to  say  it  casually. 

"No,  not  of  ten. "  Crete  looked  full  at  Valen 
tine,  smiling  frankly.  "Only  twice,  I  think.  You 
see"  .  .  .  she  wanted  to  set  at  rest  then  and  there 
further  misunderstanding  .  .  .  "Mr.  Kent  has 
been  a  good  deal  at  the  Jones  place,  where  I  stay, 
so  naturally -we've  taken  a  few  tramps  together." 

Crete  was  at  the  point  of  diplomatically  adding 
that  the  young  man  was  to  her  mind  extremely  dull 
company  because  his  thoughts  always  seemed  far 
away,  when  that  perennial  defamer  of  the  calm 
of  western  nights,  the  coyote,  lifted  afar  his  plain 
tive  voice.  At  the  sudden  sound  all  the  terrors 
of  her  forsaken  loneliness  returned  to  Valentine. 
She  had  never  heard  a  coyote  howl,  and  lying 
there  in  the  sagebrush,  with  the  black  night 
around,  the  uncanny  wail  chilled  her  marrow. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "what's  that?"  And  then, 
as  silence  settled  down  again,  "Was  it  a  lava  hop? 
Is  there  any  danger?" 

"We're  as  safe  as  at  home — only  a  coyote." 
Crete's  calmness  amazed  Valentine.  Evidently 
this  girl  who  wandered  casually  about  in  the  night 
cared  nothing  at  all  for  marauding  brutes  .  .  . 
queer  indeed  were  these  feminine  products  of  the 
West!  "But,"  continued  Crete,  "what  was  that 
animal  you  mentioned?" 


172'       The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"A  lava  hop  .  .  .  one  of  those  queer  beasts 
which  make  the  paths  on  the  side  of  the  butte. " 

11  Oh, "  said  Crete. 

"Yes,"  Valentine  continued  seriously,  "natu 
rally  I  thought  it  was  one  of  them.  Before  you 
came  I  was  scared  to  death  thinking  what  I'd  do  if 
a  lava  hop  attacked  me.  You  see,  of  course  I  was 
quite  helpless  .  .  .  but  David  said  they're  usually 
not  dangerous." 

"No,  not  usually." 

Crete  laughed,  and  her  mirth  was  boyish  and 
hearty. 

"Well?"    Valentine  was  annoyed. 

"Who  told  you  about  the  lava  hops?" 

"David." 

Crete  laughed  again.  Then  all  at  once  the 
truth  dawned  upon  Valentine.  But  instead  of 
causing  her  to  smile,  comprehension  of  the  little 
hoax  kindled  her  to  anger,  very  suddenly  and  very 
hotly.  Miss  Valentine  Pennoyer  had  been  made 
a  laughing  stock  and  before  a  frowzy -haired  west 
ern  wench,  at  that !  And  David  had  done  it !  She 
bit  her  lip. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  chuckled  Crete.  "Ten- 
derfeet  are  always  getting  little  games  put  up  on 
them.  Why,  when  David  first  came  he  put  in  a 
solid  day  fishing  on  Lone  Butte  canal  when  every- 
one  here  knows  there's  a  fish  screen  at  the  intake 
and  not  a  solitary  trout  in  the  whole  ditch.  That's 
regular.  The  lava  hop  yarn,  however, "  .  .  .  she 
smiled  again,  .  .  .  "is  newer  and  more  polished 


First  Aid  173 

...  it  really  took  an  ex-tenderfoot  to  concoct 
that,  and  a  real  one  to  swallow  it!" 

Whereat  Miss  Pennoyer  was  still  more  annoyed. 
To  have  David  Kent  play  silly  tricks  upon  her  was 
bad  enough,  but  to  be  called  a  tenderfoot  by  a 
country  girl  was  worse. 

So  Crete  was  still  chuckling  and  Valentine  was 
fuming  increasingly  when  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  and  the  distant  twinkle  of  a  lantern  an 
nounced  the  arrival  of  the  malefactor  himself. 

"You're  all  right  now,"  Crete  said.  "I  think 
I'll  go."  Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she 
disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

The  team  drew  up. 

"Hallo,  Val,"  called  Kent  cheerily.  "A  fire, 
eh?  That's  cozy!" 

The  very  word  put  Valentine  on  edge.  Cozy! 
To  be  deserted  for  an  hour,  left  lying  on  the 
ground  in  the  dark,  half  perishing  from  cold 
and  with  a  sprained  ankle — save  the  mark  if  that 
was  coziness! 

"I  couldn't  find  the  doctor  but  I  got  someone 
just  as  good — or  a  bit  better."  Kent  was  down 
from  the  wagon  with  a  jump,  and  beside  him  the 
girl  saw  a  stocky  figure.  "Valentine,  you  re 
member  Bishop  Rudd?" 

She  recalled  the  Bishop  clearly.  In  fact,  the 
recollection  which  struck  her  just  then  was  her 
mother's  account  of  having  once  spanked  this 
same  Bishop  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  a  bad  boy  at 
that.  The  memory  struck  her  as  so  absurd  she 


174        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

commenced  laughing,  and  then  all  at  once  the 
laughter  became  hysterical  and  turned  to  weeping 
as  the  reaction  of  the  experience  set  in. 

"I  wanted  a  doctor!"  she  sobbed. 

"But  I  just  couldn't  get  a  doctor,"  Kent 
interposed  gently.  "The  only  one  in  Farewell 
was  out  on  a  case.  However,  Val,"  he  added 
reassuringly,  "the  Bishop  really  knows  a  lot  about 
first-aid  work  and  can  handle  that  ankle  just  as 
well  as  any  sawbones." 

Something  in  the  efficient  and  silent  way  in 
which  Bishop  Rudd  went  about  his  task  evidently 
reassured  Valentine,  for  in  a  few  minutes  she 
regained  self-control  and  lay  quiet  as  the  amateur 
physician  bathed  the  injured  ankle  with  cool  water 
from  the  desert  water  bag  and  then  wrapped  it 
securely  with  a  gauze  bandage. 

In  the  meanwhile  Kent  replenished  the  fire  so 
as  to  have  more  light  for  the  Bishop's  activities. 

"By  the  way,  Val,  who  made  this  fire?"  It 
suddenly  struck  him  that  Valentine  of  course  could 
not  have  done  it  herself. 

"Eh,  what's  that?"  The  Bishop  looked  up 
from  his  work. 

"Why,  when  I  left  there  wasn't  any  fire  here. 
I  asked  who  made  it." 

Valentine  lay  very  still  now,  with  her  eyes  shut. 
For  perhaps  half  a  minute  she  did  not  reply. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  fire  I  suppose  the 
lava  hops  might  have  attacked  me?"  The  girl 
spoke  acidly,  her  eyes  still  closed. 


First  Aid  175 

"Lava  hops?"  echoed  the  Bishop  inquiringly. 

"Ask  Mr.  Kent." 

"Good  Lord,  Val,  I  forgot  all  about  that  .  .  . 
that  little  yarn,"  he  looked  down  at  her  as  some 
measure  of  comprehension  stole  over  him.  "  Why, 
you  poor  little  girl!  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
lay  there  worrying  about  those  fool  beasts?" 

"Only  for  a  time."  Her  voice  was  colder 
even  than  she  herself  had  been.  "No  .  .  .  please 
don't  do  that"  ...  he  had  knelt  and  started 
to  slip  his  arm  beneath  her  head  .  .  .  "it  was 
only  a  little  while  before  I  learned  you  had  been 
lying  ...  a  friend  of  yours  told  me." 

"Who?" 

"Who  climbed  the  butte  with  you  last?"  Her 
eyes  were  open  now. 

Kent  thought  a  minute. 

"Why,  I  guess  it  was  Crete  Colton." 

"Exactly!" 

"And  she  built  the  fire?" 

Valentine  nodded. 

"Where  is  she  now?"     Kent  looked  around. 

"I  don't  know  .  .  .  and  don't  care.  If  you 
want"  .  .  .  the  color  was  mounting  into  Valen 
tine's  cheeks  .  .  .  "go  find  her!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  CASUAL  QUESTION 

OCTOBER  ripened  with  sunny  splendor  at  Fare 
well,  intoxicatingly  bright  and  crisply  clear,  the 
hazes  of  summer  all  washed  away  by  the  first 
autumn  rains.  Distance,  measured  by  the  eye, 
dwindled  into  nothingness. 

For  ten  days  her  sprained  ankle  kept  Valentine  a 
prisoner  at  the  Company  House,  much  of  the  time 
ensconced  on  the  porch,  and  waited  on  by  her 
limited  court,  comprising  Kent,  Welton,  Rudd, 
and  Failing. 

The  ideal  weather  availed  Valentine  not  at  all. 
Indeed  her  inability  to  utilize  its  out-of-door 
invitations  no  whit  abated  her  fretful  discontent. 
Fundamentally  she  knew  nothing  of,  and  cared 
less  for,  such  recreation  as  the  Oregon  hills,  forests, 
and  streams  offered ;  but  now  that  she  was  there,  to 
be  prevented  from  even  sampling  these  offerings 
tormented  her.  And  the  more  Kent,  sitting  at  her 
feet,  told  of  the  Open,  the  more  rebellious  she 
became. 

"You're  positively  talking  me  sick  about  this 
country  .  .  .  I'm  getting  to  hate  it,"  she  would 
burst  forth  when  Kent  enthused  too  wantonly. 

176 


A  Casual  Question  177 

And  her  suitor  would  laugh  and  try  to  take  her 
hand  in  his,  often  with  temporary  success. 

"Next  year,"  he  would  continue  gayly,  "I  will 
initiate  you.  See  the  old  Chief?  Well,  there's 
the  most  beautifulest  camp  site  the  Lord  ever 
created,  just  below  that  long  snow  slide  .  .  . 
practically  perfect  for  a  honeymoon  camp.  Once 
you've  had  a  real  taste  of  the  mountains  you'll  be 
wild  about  it." 

Valentine  then  would  say  little  or  nothing,  in 
her  heart  convinced  her  lover  was  absurdly  unrea 
sonable.  And  after  he  left  she  would  try  to  analyze 
this  western  madness  which  had  overcome  him, 
considering  how  best  to  let  him  know,  once  and 
for  all,  that  she  entertained  no  remote  notion  of 
adopting  Farewell  and  its  out-of-doors  for  her 
own,  nor  even/ for  that  matter,  of  accepting  the 
most  alluring  honeymoon  invitations  .  .  .  unless 
with  very  different  environment. 

"Well,  Val  dear,"  Alton  Pennoyer  declared  one 
noon,  after  a  morning  with  Failing  at  the  office, 
"everything  is  rounding  up  nicely  now.  The 
Land  Board  seems  ready  to  stand  for  the  new 
unit,  if  there's  no  strong  objection  up  here. 
They've  got  political  jobs,  you  know,  and  keep 
their  ears  to  the  ground  for  the  growls  of  the 
dear  electorate." 

Valentine,  in  the  hammock  on  the  porch,  smiled 
up  at  her  father.  It  was  refreshing  to  find  him  in 
a  cheerful  mood  for  once,  for  the  squabbles  of  the 
irrigationists  had  kept  him  well  on  edge. 

12 


178        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"There  won't  be  any  growls,  then,  Dads?" 

"No.  That  is"  .  .  .  the  speaker  smiled  as  he 
stroked  his  crisp  mustache  .  .  .  "there  won't  be 
any  you  can  hear  down  at  Salem." 

She  asked  him  about  Failing's  plan  for  a  special 
edition  of  the  Pioneer,  of  which  he  had  wired  when 
they  left  New  York. 

"That's  all  fixed.  Just  went  over  the  last 
article.  Old  Pharaoh  Jones,  the  editor,  begins 
setting  the  type  this  afternoon.  It  will  be  shipped 
to  me  at  Portland  ..." 

"Then  you're  going  to  Portland?    Oh!  Dads 

>t 

•  •  • 

"I  have  to,  Val.  But  it  will  only  be  for  a  few 
days  and  you'll  be  quite  comfortable  here.  Failing 
is  going  to  the  hotel  so  you'll  have  the  place  to 
yourself.  And  by  the  way,  wouldn't  it  be  a  good 
idea  to  get  some  woman  to  stay  with  you?" 

Valentine  considered  the  proposition  for  a 
minute.  Then  an  idea  struck  her. 

"Yes,  that  would  be  best.  I'll  ask  Miss  Col- 
ton." 

"Miss  Colton?"  The  name  meant  nothing  to 
Pennoyer. 

"She's  a  girl  I  met  the  other  day." 

"All  right.  Better  get  her  promptly  as  I'm 
leaving  to-morrow. " 

Shortly  after  lunch,  when  her  father  and  Failing 
had  appropriated  to  themselves  the  big  "main 
room"  of  the  Company  House  with  their  heads 
together  over  maps  and  papers,  Valentine,  upon 


A  Casual  Question  179 

the  porch,  spied  Bishop  Rudd.  Answering  her 
call  he  came  across  the  grass,  thick  chested, 
tanned,  and  clear  of  eye,  with  the  ever-present 
smile  hovering  about  his  generous  mouth. 

"A  regular  old-fashioned  girl!  "  he  greeted  her. 
"On  the  piazza  ...  in  a  hammock  and  .  .  .  no, 
I  see  it's  not  embroidery  but  a  novel,  which  fills 
the  bill  quite  as  well."  He  seated  himself  on  the 
top  step,  where  the  sunshine  enveloped  him  and 
his  own  sunny  smile  enveloped  her.  "  You  know, 
I'm  afraid  I'm  a  reactionary — the  old-fashioned 
dainty  hammock  girl  makes  such  a  hit  with  me!" 

She  was  genuinely  pleased  with  the  compliment, 
which  had  the  ring  of  sincerity.  But  after  all 
why  shouldn't  he  compliment  her?  Didn't  she 
look  adorably  attractive  in  her  negligee  creation  of 
chiffon  and  cr£pe  de  chine  of  palest  green?  Her 
own  glance,  on  a  roving  commission  of  self  ap 
praisement,  even  took  stock  of  the  shapely  mem 
ber  which  extended  alluringly  just  over  the  edge  of 
the  hammock  displaying  an  abbreviated  expanse 
of  silken  ankle,  while  its  bandaged  and  unsightly 
mate  was  banished  from  observation  beneath  a 
gayly  oriental  shawl. 

"But  I'm  not  old  fashioned!"  she  objected. 

"You  don't  look  old,  of  course  .  .  .  but  please 
don't  deny  looking  old  fashioned.  Really,  it's 
most  becoming." 

"Bishop,  which  do  you  like  better?"  The 
girl's  voice  was  half  joking,  half  earnest.  "  The 
hammock  girl  or  the  other  kind  .  .  .  the  out 


i8o        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

door  well-I-should-say-I-can-take-care-of -myself 
variety?" 

The  Bishop  laughed  outright. 

"I  suppose  I  mean  the  so-called  typical  western 
girl,"  Valentine  added. 

"I  don't  go  much  on  types,  myself,"  he  replied. 
"You  see,  <to  my  mind,  there's  no  such  thing 
to-day  as  a  'typical'  western  woman  or  man, 
any  more  than  there  is  a  ' typical'  American. 
We're  all  composite  photographs  printed  from 
countless  exposures  but  developed  each  in  an 
individual  solution. " 

"Anyway,  you'll  admit  the  girls  of  the  West 
aren't  .  .  .  well,  the  'old-f ashioned '  kind  you  were 
enthusing  over  just  now?" 

The  Bishop  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 

"I  see  just  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  "and  it's 
true  enough  out  here  the  woods  are  full  of  the 
competent,  take-care-of -herself  kind,  as  you  put  it. 
And  do  you  know,  when  I  consider  the  prob 
lem"  ...  he  paused,  pressing  his  lips  together 
in  a  quizzical  way  he  had,  while  his  eyes  twinkled 
.  .  .  "  I'm  totally  unable  to  make  a  decision  .  .  . 
I'm  neutral.  However,  my  ideal  would  be  a 
combination  of  the  two.  ..." 

"A  harem?" 

"Hardly!  Say  the  graces  of  the  drawing-room 
combined  with  the  attributes  of  the  open.  I 
suppose  though,"  ...  he  heaved  a  heavy  mock 
sigh,  .  .  .  "such  perfection  exists  only  in  the 
dreams  of  an  ageing  ecclesiastical  bachelor." 


A  Casual  Question  181 

Valentine  liked  this  plain,  outspoken  churchman 
almost  despite  herself.  His  singular,  blunt  infor 
mality  contrasted  oddly  with  the  graces  and  mental 
furbelows  of  the  squires  of  the  cloth  with  whom  she 
had  sipped  tea  in  transcontinental  drawing-rooms. 

"What  is  Mr.  Kent's  ideal?"  She  asked  it 
lightly,  and  then  tucked  back  a  disorderly  lock 
spied  in  the  tiny  mirror  that  dangled  from  a  slight 
golden  chain  around  her  neck. 

The  little  Bishop  got  up  from  the  step,  and 
when  he  had  his  stocky  legs  firmly  beneath  his 
thick  strong  body  he  stood  for  a  moment  silently 
until  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  think,"  said  the  little  Bishop  meeting  her 
eyes  earnestly,  "that  the  easiest  way  for  you  to  see 
David  Kent's  ideal  .  .  .  would  be  to  look  in  your 
mirror  again." 

Valentine  blushed  prettily,  quite  consciously 
contented. 

She  changed  the  subject  then,  telling  Rudd  of 
her  father's  departure  the  following  day  and  her 
desire  to  secure  a  companion  to  share  the  Company 
House  with  her. 

"So  .  .  .  for  contrast's  sake  as  well  as  com 
pany!  .  .  .  East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  you 
know  ...  I  want  to  ask  Miss  Colton  to  stay 
with  me  until  Dads  comes  back.  Won't  you 
please  act  as  my  courier?" 

He  acquiesced  promptly,  even  insisting  that 
the  formality  of  a  written  invitation  was  entirely 
unnecessary,  despite  Valentine's  protests. 


1 82        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"I  was  going  by  the  Pioneer  shop  anyway  and 
I'll  just  drop  in  and  tell  her — she's  pretty  sure 
to  be  there,"  he  said.  "You  see,  'jes  passin'  the 
word'  is  quite  comme  il  faut  in  this  neck  of  the 
woods." 

"I  hope  the  poor  thing  has  something  fit  to 
wear  .  .  .  and  that  she  doesn't  eat  with  her 
knife!"  the  young  lady  said  to  herself  when 
the  Bishop  had  gone.  Then,  rearranging  the 
pillows  and  with  the  passing  thought  that  com 
parisons  often  are  desirable  in  the  education  of 
masculine  appreciation,  she  assumed  the  serious 
contemplation  of  her  novel. 

Alton  Pennoyer  was  in  the  midst  of  a  cigar  and 
a  sentence  when  he  and  Failing  emerged  from  their 
conference. 

Pennoyer  was  saying,  "They  must  leave  Shan- 
iko  Sunday  morning.  Express  'em  direct  to  me  so 
they'll  be  delivered  first  thing  Monday  morning. " 

Failing  nodded. 

"The  Board  gets  in  from  Salem  about  noon. 
We'll  have  lunch  and  then  adjourn  to  my  sitting- 
room  for  cigars  and  a  wee  nip.  The  first  thing 
you  know  one  of  'em  will  see  a  copy  of  the  Pioneer 
lying  around  casually  and  he'll  pick  it  up. " 

"And  they'll  fall  all  over  themselves!"  ejacu 
lated  Failing.  "Once  they  find  out  from  the 
paper  that  the  country  is  keen  for  the  new  unit 
there'll  be  nothing  to  it.  It'll  tickle  'em,  too, 
because  those  follows  don't  want  any  trouble  .  .  . 
just  the  minute  they  discover  the  plan  has  popular 


A  Casual  Question  183 

backing  instead  of  opposition  they'll  have  ner 
vous  prostration  in  their  hurry  to  sign  up  the 
contract. " 

" Maybe, "  said  Pennoyer.  "At  least,  I  hope 
so — and  I'll  admit  it  looks  reasonable.  But 
there'll  have  to  be  another  formal  meeting  at 
Salem." 

"I  wouldn't  delay  a  minute  longer  than  ab 
solutely  necessary,"  Failing  advised.  "I  know 
these  blamed  State  boards — don't  give  them  a 
chance  to  figure  much  or  ask  too  many  questions. 
They're  worse  than  weather  vanes  when  it  comes 
to  shifting  around. " 

" Leave  it  to  me!"  The  financier  smiled  com 
placently. 

Dapper  young  Welton  appeared  just  then, 
greeting  Valentine  pleasantly  and  his  employer 
with  a  respectfulness  which  to  the  girl  seemed 
very  appropriate.  With  a  word  of  cordial  saluta 
tion  he  took  the  young  engineer  by  the  arm  and 
led  him  into  the  house. 

"By  Gad,  Miss  Valentine,  he's  a  wonder!" 
Failing  brandished  his  thick  thumb  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  door.  "He's  got  the  punch  and  drive 
.  .  .  and  the  ideas."  The  burly  manager  en 
thused  oilily. 

"Yes?"  said  Valentine,  absentmindedly.  The 
words  conjured  up  some  memory,  which  she  sought 
to  visualize.  Then  suddenly  the  conversation 
overheard  at  the  foot  of  Lone  Butte  came  back  to 
her. 


1 84        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Do  they  call  Dads  the  'Old  Man'?"  she  asked. 

The  quick  question  took  the  manager  unaware. 
"Why  yes,"  he  stuttered,  "they  do  call  him  that 
sometimes.  You  see,  most  always  the  boss  any 
where  out  here  is  called  the  'old  man*  ...  no 
matter  how  really  young  he  is,"  he  added,  as  an 
afterthought,  and  wound  up  with  a  chuckle  that 
was  intended  to  be  ingratiating;  "it's  sort  of  a 
term  of  ...  of  endearment,  you  might  say." 

It  was  not  Failing  anyway,  whom  she  had  heard 
talking  with  Crete  Colt  on. 

However,  she  would  try  again.  It  was  quite  an 
amusing  experiment  .  .  .  and  she  might  stumble 
upon  the  identity  of  that  nocturnal  voice. 

"Who  told  him  to  fake  the  records?"  The 
question  was  nothing  more  than  a  whim,  and 
she  was  prepared  to  laugh  at  his  expected  mys 
tification. 

But  though  mystification  suffused  Failing's  face 
it  was  of  a  quality  so  extraordinary  as  to  startle 
Valentine  almost  as  much  as  her  own  innocent 
words  had  startled  the  manager. 

"The  records?"  His  voice  faltered  uncer 
tainly. 

"Why  yes  .  .  .  who  actually  faked  them?" 
The  audacity  of  her  r61e  astonished  Valentine 
herself.  She  felt  she  was  playing  with  gun 
powder,  yet  enjoyed  the  experience  in  a  dubious 
fashion. 

"Your  father  had  no  hand  in  it,  Miss  Pennoyer, 
.  rest  assured  of  that. " 


A  Casual  Question  185 

Valentine,  thoroughly  startled,  swung  around  to 
face  Crete  Colton,  who  stood  on  the  lawn  at  the 
edge  of  the  porch.  The  western  girl  regarded  her 
steadily,  with  a  kindly  smile. 

"I'm  sorry  I  overheard  you,"  Crete  continued 
in  her  quiet  voice.  "You  didn't  notice  me  coming 
across  the  grass — and  I  couldn't  help  hearing 
your  question  ...  I'm  really  glad  you  know 
about  it." 

"About  what?" 

"Why,  the  records." 

"What  records?11  All  at  once  Valentine  felt 
acutely  annoyed.  She  had  capitalized  that  chance 
remark  about  the  mysterious  records  more  from  a 
spirit  of  mischief  than  anything  else,  and  now, 
behold,  it  had  created  a  scene  with  the  manager 
and  elucidated  something  in  the  nature  of  a  defense 
of  her  own  father  from  this  stranger  girl. 

It  was  Crete's  turn  to  be  puzzled,  and  she 
showed  it. 

"Hallo!  Sounds  like  a  movie  scene  looks." 
Max  Welton  emerged  from  the  house  just  in  time 
to  catch  the  last  words.  "'The  fatal  records,  or 
who  stole  the  will/  eh?"  He  saw  only  Valentine 
and  Failing,  Crete  being  hidden  from  his  view 
point.  "If  you  want  any  information,  Miss 
Pennoyer,  ask  me  .  .  .  I'm  a  regular  archive  when 
it  comes  to  records,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent, 
and  my  motto  is  satisfaction  guaranteed  or  your 

M 

"*  The  happy-go-lucky  garrulity  ended  abruptly  as 


1 86        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

the  speaker,  stepping  out  on  the  porch,  spied 
Crete. 

"Yes,  by  all  means  ask  him." 

Crete  Colton  said  it  very  evenly. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

KING  DAVID'S  QUEEN 

"I  BEAR  a  royal  summons,"  said  Bishop  Rudd, 
bowing  profoundly. 

"Is  it  to  church?"  She  smiled.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  she  always  did  go  on  those  welcome  occa 
sions  when  the  Bishop  visited  Farewell. 

"  Nothing  half  so  tedious.  You're  nominated  as 
lady-in-waiting  to  the  Queen." 

"Queen?"    Crete  was  puzzled.    "What  queen?" 

"King  David's  queen." 

"  Oh ! "     Without  enthusiasm. 

So  the  Bishop  delivered  his  message,  adding  that 
he  thought  it  would  be  a  specially  nice  thing  to 
accept  it. 

"Perhaps.  But  personally  I  don't  believe  in 
royalty  .  .  .  it's  undemocratic  and  strictly  taboo 
under  the  Oregon  system,  you  know.  And 
Bishop,  wasn't  the  Queen  of  Sheba  .  .  .  well, 
wasn't  she  a  rather  unreliable  person?" 

But  Bishop  Rudd  refused  to  carry  the  discus 
sion  into  the  realms  of  biblical  history,  and  again 
urging  her  to  go  to  the  Company  House  forthwith 
and  accept  for  herself,  went  his  own  way. 

187 


i88         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Walking  over  the  soft  turf,  the  while  considering 
whether  or  not  she  cared  to  accept  the  hospitality 
of  the  girl  whom  she  had  first  seen  a  few  nights 
previously  beside  a  sagebrush  fire  at  the  base  of 
the  Pilot,  Crete  rounded  a  corner  of  the  log  house. 
And  just  as  she  emerged  Valentine  put  her  open 
sesame  question  about  the  records  of  the  flow  of 
Welcome  River. 

"Failing  .  .  .  you,  too,  Welton  .  .  .  come  in 
for  a  minute."  Pennoyer,  in  the  doorway, 
beckoned  his  henchmen.  Then  he  turned  and 
went  inside,  having  scarcely  seen  Crete  and  with 
out  noticing  at  all  the  tenseness  of  the  four  there 
upon  the  porch. 

Outside  the  two  young  women  faced  each 
other. 

"Too  bad  to  interrupt  the  novel!"  It  was 
Crete  who  regained  her  poise  first. 

Valentine  felt  angry  and  mystified,  in  about 
equal  proportions.  The  latter  feeling  provoked 
the  former.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  mysteries 
and  one  involving  her  own  interests,  as  this  one 
somehow  seemed  to  do,  especially  piqued  her. 

"Oh,  one  doesn't  have  to  read  novels  here  to 
get  all  the  sensations  of  up-to-date  romance,"  she 
laughed,  with  simulated  good  nature.  "You 
people  seem  intent  upon  staging  some  kind  of  a 
mystery  play,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  tell 
whether  it's  comedy  or  tragedy!" 

"Perhaps  farce,"  suggested  Crete,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  porch  with  her  back  to  a  post. 


King  David's  Queen  189 

"But  they"  .  .  .  Valentine  nodded  toward  the 
door  just  closed  upon  the  two  men  .  .  .  "they 
don't  seem  to  register  undiluted  mirth.  But  to  be 
serious  ..."  She  closed  her  book  briskly.  "I 
hope  Bishop  Rudd  gave  you  my  invitation,  and  I 
hope  you'll  accept  it. " 

"Yes.     He  did  .  .  .  and  I  will,  with  pleasure. " 

"That's  splendid.  Really,  I'd  perish  of  loneli 
ness  if  you  wouldn't  come.  And  there's  so  much  I 
want  you  to  tell  me. " 

"And  so  much  I  don't  intend  to  tell!"  said  Crete 
to  herself. 

The  next  morning,  after  seeing  her  father  em 
barked  in  an  automobile  for  Shaniko,  she  hobbled 
back  to  the  hammock,  forseeing  as  the  most  en 
tertaining  rift  in  the  dull  hours  before  her  Crete's 
arrival  later  in  the  day.  But  another  visitor  came 
first.  It  was  David  Kent. 

Even  when  they  were  spotlessly  new  Valentine 
disliked  corduroys  and  flannel  shirts,  and  once  they 
acquired  comparative  antiquity,  as  had  Kent's, 
she  more  than  ever  disapproved.  His  corduroys 
were  scandalously  ink  stained.  His  flannel  shirt 
was  torn  and  open  at  the  throat  because  there  were 
no  buttons  to  keep  it  closed,  while  one  sleeve  was 
rolled  up  to  the  elbow  and  the  other  ended  raggedly 
midway  between  elbow  and  wrist.  A  decisive 
smudge  of  black,  evidently  more  ink,  cross- 
sectioned  the  tanned  forearm,  and  a  lesser  smudge 
of  the  same  brew  adorned  the  young  man's  brow 
at  the  base  of  his  towsled  locks. 


190         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Heavens!  What  have  we  now  ...  a  tramp, 
street  cleaner,  or  simply  a  printer's  devil?" 

"A  devil  of  a  mess,  I'll  admit,"  he  answered 
ruefully. 

"  Did  you  fall  in  the  ink  this  time?  Or  did  your 
editor  friend  have  you  clean  the  inside  of  the 
stove?" 

"Neither.  I  simply  played  nursemaid  to  the 
press  and  changed  its  rollers.  You  see,  I  was 
feeding  it  .  .  ." 

"On  a  bottle  of  ink?" 

"No,"  he  laughed,  "I  was  feeding  the  first 
run  .  .  ." 

"For  goodness'  sake,  talk  English." 

"Well,"  desperately,  "while  I  was  putting  the 
papers  through  the  press  the  clips  slipped  on  one 
of  them  and  before  I  could  stop  the  old  Babcock 
she'd  wound  up  tight.  Awful  mess  ...  so  I  took 
off  the  rollers  and  cleaned  'em." 

"And  you're  the  awful  mess  now." 

She  noted  with  repugnance  how  black  his  finger 
nails  were. 

Despite  the  sulkiness  of  his  reception  Kent 
settled  down  on  the  steps  near  the  hammock,  with 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"That  positively  feels  good,"  he  said.  "I've 
been  working  like  a  dog." 

"But  it's  scarcely  time  to  commence  working 
yet,"  said  Valentine.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
nine  o'clock  opening  hour  customary  in  the  opulent 
offices  of  her  friends. 


King  David's  Queen  191 

"Oh,  my  job  began  while  you  were  sleeping," 
her  grimy  visitor  explained.  "Poor  old  Pharaoh 
is  swamped  with  the  extra  work  of  getting  out  this 
special  edition  for  your  father.  He  didn't  get  the 
forms  ready  for  the  first  run  until  two  o'clock 
this  morning.  Then  he  woke  me  up  to  run  them 
off  while  he  had  a  bit  of  rest.  I  was  bunking  on  a 
camp  couch  in  the  front  office." 

It  all  seemed  quite  foolish  and  unnecessary  to 
Valentine,  and  she  said  so. 

"Well,  it  is  a  bit  extraordinary,  I'll  admit." 
Just  then  to  Kent  the  most  extraordinary  feature 
of  all  was  the  realization  that  he  could  feel  so 
healthfully  fresh  and  good  natured  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning  after  five  solid  hours  of  irksome 
labor.  "But  look  here,  Val,  there's  no  use  being 
cross  about  it.  Of  course,  I'm  beastly  sorry  about 
the  ankle,  and  you  being  interned  here  in  this 
social  wilderness.  But  a  bargain's  a  bargain,  and 
I'm  living  up  to  my  end,  like  a  Sunday  school  hero. 
The  Spartan  youth  with  the  wolf  in  his  jeans  had 
nothing  on  me — only  my  wolf  seems  to  be  at  the 
door." 

"It  wasn't  a  wolf  ...  it  was  a  fox,"  pro 
claimed  Valentine. 

"The  only  difference  is  a  fox  is  smarter,  and 
harder  to  keep  out.  But  seriously,  Val"  ...  he 
turned  full  towards  her  now  and  his  bantering  tone 
gave  way  to  earnestness  .  .  .  "remember  what 
I  told  you  of  the  Bishop's  farewell  lecture  about 
'jelling'?" 


192         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

She  remembered. 

"He  said  I'd  been  boiling  long  enough  and 
needed  to  'jell.'  You  sort  of  agreed  with  him. 
Well,  I've  jelled  a  whole  lot  since  I  came  to  Fare 
well.  Seems  as  if  I've  settled  down  and  found 
myself  most  surprisingly  ...  at  least  it  surprises 
me. "  He  doubled  his  ink  smudged  right  arm  and 
with  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand  felt  the  muscles. 
"  It  isn't  just  my  body  that's  hardened  up,  either. 
It's  the  rest  of  me.  I've  found  something  to  do 
and  I  mean  to  do  it." 

"Yes?"  said  Valentine,  with  mild  interest. 

Then  Kent  broached  the  purpose  of  his  early 
morning  call.  He  told  her  in  a  straightforward 
way  of  what  he  had  found  at  Lost  Lake,  and  of 
what  his  idea  could  mean  to  the  segregation,  and 
the  settlers  upon  it.  He  also  told  her  that  he 
knew  there  was  not  enough  water  in  Welcome 
River  to  care  for  the  present  segregation,  let  alone 
the  proposed  South  Unit;  and  he  explained 
discreetly  his  confidence  that  Alton  Pennoyer  was 
unaware  of  the  water  shortage,  having  doubtless 
been  misled  by  crooked  flowage  reports.  The  girl 
readily  grasped  the  main  facts  that  Kent  believed 
there  was  not  enough  water  in  Welcome  River  for 
the  needs  of  her  father's  irrigation  enterprise,  and 
that  if  the  flow  from  this  Lost  Lake  of  his  could 
be  turned  into  the  river  the  defect  would  be 
remedied. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  Dads  about  it?"  she 
asked. 


King  David's  Queen  193 

He  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying. 

"There  are  two  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  as  I 
said,  I  don't  believe  your  father  knows  anything 
about  the  water  shortage  ..." 

1  'Who  does?"  Valentine  interrupted. 

"Well,  I  know  that  Failing  does  and  I  be 
lieve  ..."  Again  he  hesitated. 

"Yes,  go  on,"  she  insisted. 

"...  If  you  must  know,  the  chap  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  to  my  notion,  is  that  fashion  plate 
friend  of  yours  with  the  bonny  braes,  Max  Wei- 
ton  .  .  ." 

"Just  because  you're  jealous  is  no  reason  to 
insult  a  ...  a  real  friend  of  mine,"  Valentine 
flamed  up. 

"Excuse  me, "  he  said  quietly.  And  to  himself, 
"Jealous?  Oh,  Lord!" 

"You  say  you  don't  believe  Dads  knows  .  .  . 
why  don't  you  tell  him,  then?"  She  repeated  her 
query  sharply. 

"I  would  if  it  were  only  he  I'd  have  to  deal 
with.  But  when  a  fellow  has  a  good  hand  he 
doesn't  show  his  cards  until  the  bets  are  made.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  file  on  the  water  rights  at  Lost  Lake 
and  get  them  sewed  up  before  I  tell  what  I  have. " 
His  jaw  squared  perceptibly.  "Then  I'll  be  in 
shape  to  make  this  blessed  B.  I.  C.  come  to  terms 
— my  terms." 

"You  mean  you'll  fight  father?"  The  color 
in  her  cheeks  heightened. 

"No,"  he  hesitated,  "I  don't  want  to  ...  I 

13 


194        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

won't  do  that  ...  if  he  will  only  meet  me  half 
way." 

"Meet  you  half  way!"  Valentine's  lips  curled 
contemptuously.  Her  pride  was  pricked  by  the 
absurd  notion  of  this  arrogant  youth  daring  to 
suggest  that  her  father,  Alton  Pennoyer,  should 
come  to  him  for  terms!  It  was  preposterous,  and 
made  her  all  at  once  thoroughly  angry. 

"The  point  is,  Valentine, "  he  continued  matter- 
of-factly  and  feeling  very  sure  of  himself  now, 
"that  to  put  this  thing  over  the  way  it  must  be 
handled,  I  have  to  break  my  bargain,  at  least  a 
little  bit." 

"It's  no  bargain  of  mine, "  she  said  curtly. 

"Call  it  anything  you  like — at  least  it's  the 
rules  of  the  game  I  set  out  to  play  for  this  year, 
just  to  see  if  I  could  play  fair  and  win  out.  And 
now  I  want  to  break  one  of  'em — and  I've  come  for 
your  permission. " 

She  offered  no  encouragement. 

"In  a  few  days  now  I'm  going  to  file  on  Lost 
Lake  .  .  .  it's  a  matter  of  posting  some  papers  up 
there  and  taking  some  others  to  Salem.  That's 
just  the  beginning.  I'll  have  to  do  a  lot  of  improve 
ment  work  to  keep  the  water  rights,  if  they  are 
contested,  which  probably  they  will  be.  And  it 
takes  money  to  pay  for  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
rule  I  want  to  break, "  he  continued  quite  gravely, 
"is  the  one  about  money.  You  know  I  agreed 
not  to  use  a  dollar  but  what  I  earned  during  the 
year.  Now,  I  want  to  draw  some  from  the  East — 


King  David's  Queen  195 

and  Valentine,  it's  to  save  a  bunch  of  poor  devils 
out  there  in  the  sagebrush  who  don't  begin  to 
know  the  trouble  they're  getting  into. " 

"Well?"  Valentine's  voice  was  quite  colorless. 
Inwardly  she  was  boiling,  and  yet  at  the  same 
time  she  had  a  queer  consciousness  of  a  desire  to 
laugh  aloud;  it  was  so  ridiculously  unnecessary 
for  this  matter-of-fact  everyday  young  man  to 
take  the  quixotic  "rules"  so  seriously. 

"Do  you  mind?" 

His  persistency  annoyed  her  afresh. 

"Mind?"  she  flared.  "Certainly  not.  I  don't 
care  what  you  do — it's  nothing  to  me!" 

"Nothing?" 

"David  Kent."  Her  voice  shook  ominously. 
"I'm  sick  and  tired  of  it  all." 

"You're  sick.  True  enough  ...  I'm  sorry, 
Val." 

"I'm  not  sick.  Don't  patronize  me."  Sym 
pathy  only  aggravated.  .  .  .  "But  it's  enough  to 
make  anyone  sick.  Why  on  earth  are  you  putter 
ing  around  with  all  this  tomfoolery?  Where  is  it 
getting  you?  Is  it  fair  to  me?  As  far  as  I  can 
see  you  spent  most  of  the  summer  with  this  Crete 
person  ..."  The  second  she  said  it  she  wished 
the  words  unuttered;  but  they  were  gone  now,  so 
she  plunged  on.  "You  insult  my  friend;  you 
stir  up  trouble  for  my  father,  and  now  you  actually 
ask  me  if  I  object  to  your  making  more  trouble 
for  him." 

The  girl  collected  herself. 


196         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"I'm  going  home  next  week."  There  was  a 
wealth  of  meaning,  almost  of  invitation,  in  the 
announcement. 

But  Kent  did  not  rise  to  the  occasion ;  at  least  he 
didn't  rise  in  just  the  way  he  probably  was  ex 
pected  to.  Getting  to  his  feet  he  came  over  to 
the  hammock,  looking  down  upon  the  girl  as  she 
lay  there. 

"Valentine,  when  will  you  marry  me?"  She 
regarded  him  steadily,  too  much  a  thoroughbred 
to  waver. 

"When?"  she  mocked. 

He  nodded,  as  much  as  to  say,  "That's  exactly 
what  I  mean." 

" When  will  you  give  up  .  .  .  this?" 

He  was  tense;  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  him  he 
had  reached  an  unexpected  crisis.  Yet  he  was 
able  to  answer  the  question  with  another,  and 
smilingly. 

"Will  you  ...  if  I  do  give  up?" 

The  gray  eyes  looked  into  the  brown  ones,  seeing 
very  little  of  what  was  just  before  them  and  much 
of  what  was  hidden  far  beyond.  Then  all  at  once 
they  wavered  and  dropped.  Valentine  suddenly, 
surely  realized  that  a  new  certainty  had  been 
born  in  her  heart  from  its  many  uncertainties — 
and  that  contradictory  certainty  was  that  she 
was  uncertain. 

Kent,  watching  her  face  and  the  new  doubts 
written  there,  intuitively  realized  that  he  would 
get  no  answer  then — realized,  too,  that  the  girl 


King  David's  Queen  197 

who  so  long  had  idled  before  the  gateway  of  deci 
sion  now  found  her  heart  unwilling  to  go  further 
when  finally  her  foot  was  placed  upon  its  threshold. 
And  instead  of  utterly  casting  him  down  that 
realization  somehow  left  him  strangely  satisfied. 
A  feeling  inexplicably  akin  to  relief  flashed  through 
him.  And  subconsciously  realizing  this,  David 
Kent  was  sorely  puzzled. 


CHAPTER  XX 
PI 

"I  WONDER, "  said  Miranda,  when  she  and  Pha 
raoh  quit  their  work  at  the  Pioneer  shop  to  go  to 
Farewell  Inn  for  supper,  "I  wonder  where  David 
is." 

It  was  time  for  Kent  to  put  in  an  appearance, 
for  they  required  his  help  to  make  the  three 
remaining  runs  on  the  press  early  that  night. 
Everything  was  ready  for  this  final  step  in  the  pre 
paration  of  Failing's  special  edition.  Four  pages 
were  already  locked  up,  the  two  heavy  chases, 
each  with  its  two  pages,  resting  on  edge  beside 
the  press.  The  other  four  pages  of  type  were 
made  up  upon  the  imposing  stone,  ready  to  have 
these  same  chases  fitted  around  them  when  the 
printing  of  the  initial  run  was  completed. 

It  was  close  to  seven  o'clock  when  the  editor 
and  his  "staff"  left  the  building  and  night  had 
already  settled  down. 

"B-r-r-r-r!"  he  chattered,  taking  Miranda's 
arm.  "  It's  mighty  chilly,  Hon. " 

"Yes,  and  likely  to  be  colder.  See  how  black  it 
looks." 

198 


Pi  199 

Through  the  gathering  gloom  they  still  could  see 
the  outline  of  the  Cascade  Range  to  the  west  with 
an  ominous  dark  mass  of  clouds  hanging  close 
above  the  mountains. 

"It's  snowing  up  there,"  said  Pharaoh,  sighing 
wearily.  "That  means  the  end  of  the  summer, 
and  here  we're  scarcely  into  October.  It's  a 
God-forsaken  short  season  at  best." 

As  they  sat  in  the  fly-specked  dining-room  of 
the  inn  Failing  entered. 

"How's  it  coming?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"Fine,"  replied  Pharaoh,  gulping  the  dregs  of 
his  coffee.  "We're  going  back  now  to  put  the  last 
runs  on  the  press.  The  bundles  you  want  will  be 
ready  not  much  after  midnight,  I  think. " 

The  manager  grunted  his  approval.  "I'll  drop 
in  later, "  he  said,  and  rolled  away. 

"And  now, "  said  Pharaoh  to  Miranda,  "I'll  just 
take  you  around  to  the  Company  House  and  leave 
you  with  Crete  and  Miss  Pennoyer  for  a  bit  of  a 
rest.  They'll  welcome  company,  I  reckon  ...  a 
queer  combination  those  two  .  .  .  like  a  French  doll 
and  a  Teddy  bear — 'cept  in  looks,"  he  chuckled. 

She  objected,  but  for  once  to  no  avail,  and  to 
the  Company  House  she  was  taken,  whence 
Pharaoh  went  on  his  way  to  the  Pioneer.  He 
could  see  an  uncertain  light  through  the  shop 
windows  as  he  approached.  "That's  David,"  he 
thought,  "  starting  work. " 

When   the  slight  form  of  the  editor  and  the 


200        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

ample  outlines  of  his  wife  became  lost  in  the 
gloom  as  they  proceeded  toward  the  inn  for  their 
supper,  a  figure  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  a 
juniper  tree  near  the  Pioneer  building. 

Seeing  the  coast  clear  the  figure  advanced 
quickly  and  opened  the  unlocked  door  of  the  edito 
rial  sanctum.  Once  within,  the  man  appeared  to 
be  familiar  with  his  surroundings  and  to  know 
exactly  the  purpose  of  his  unbidden  entrance. 
On  his  way  to  the  printshop  he  brushed  by  the 
small  safe  which  Pharaoh  had  once  taken  on  a  bad 
advertising  account  and  wherein  he  always  firmly 
intended  to  lock  up  each  night  the  cashbook  and 
subscription  records  of  the  Pioneer,  a  laudable 
intention  actually  fulfilled  with  methodical  irregu 
larity.  To-night  as  usual  the  records  and  the 
slim  cashbook  were  on  the  counter  instead  of  in 
the  safe. 

"  Had  I  better  pull  a  little  real  robbery  to  make 
it  realistic?"  the  marauder  questioned  aloud,  and 
then  after  considering  this  unique  proposition 
for  a  moment  he  chuckled  and  knelt  down  beside 
the  safe.  A  few  turns  of  the  combination,  a  few 
soft  metal  clicks,  and  the  heavy  door  swung  open. 
Whereupon  the  cracksman,  instead  of  taking 
something  from  the  safe,  put  something  into  it,  in 
the  shape  of  a  note  which  he  scrawled  with  cool 
deliberation,  lighting  his  epistle  with  the  glare  of 
a  tiny  electric  flash.  Then  this  unprofessional 
Raffles  shut  the  door  and  turned  to  the  business 
of  his  call. 


Pi  201 

\ 

The  flashlight  played  for  an  instant  over  the 
Babcock  press.  Then  it  focused  upon  the  two 
forms  of  type,  set  on  edge  in  the  chases  close  at 
hand. 

In  the  mechanics  of  printing,  type  after  being 
set  in  a  "stick"  is  assembled  on  large  flat  stones 
and  the  page  or  form  to  be  printed  is  "made  up," 
which  is  by  way  of  saying  that  it  is  put  into  final 
shape  for  the  printing  process.  Then  a  steel 
frame  called  a  "chase"  is  laid  over  the  "form." 
This  done,  the  form  is  literally  wedged  into  the 
surrounding  chase,  finally  being  "locked"  with 
ingenious  contrivances  called  "quoins, "  which  are 
adjusted  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  a  great  ten 
sion  from  one  side  of  the  chase  to  the  other.  It  is 
this  pressure  which  keeps  all  the  myriad  particles 
of  type  in  place.  Then  the  heavy  form,  with 
its  many  pounds  of  lead,  is  lifted  and  placed  upon 
the  press  for  printing.  It  is  during  this  process 
of  moving  a  form  that  the  greatest  printshop 
tragedies  sometimes  occur.  For  if  the  quoins  are 
not  tightened  to  the  n'th  degree,  or  if  some  portion 
of  the  type  is  not  properly  put  in  place  or  justi 
fied, — or  if,  for  instance,  a  printer  slips  and  knocks 
the  precious  burden  upon  some  corner,  or  lets  it 
fall, — catastrophe  superlative  ensues  with  appalling 
completeness.  All  at  once  the  orderly  flat  form  of 
type  is  a  mess  of  metal  upon  the  floor;  the  chase, 
instead  of  framing  a  neat  plane  of  type  faces, 
surrounds  thin  air;  and  there  remains  a  heart 
breaking  work  of  hours  or  even  days  to  put  in  order 


202         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

again  the  scrambled  litter  of  type,  which  printers 
call"  pi." 

It  was  such  a  form,  locked  in  its  chase,  that  the 
flashlight  fell  upon.  It  was,  or  would  be  when 
printed,  four  full  pages  of  James  Failing's  special 
edition  of  the  Farewell  Pioneer. 

Those  particular  forms,  however,  would  never 
be  printed.  For  the  masked  marauder,  placing  his 
foot  in  the  middle  of  the  nearest  one,  pressed 
against  it  until  the  type  gave  way  and  the  whole 
mass  of  metal  shattered  into  a  pyramid  upon  the 
floor.  Thereupon  the  visitor  repeated  the  pro 
cess  with  the  second  form,  giving  this  one  a  brisk 
kick  which  sent  the  leaden  type  clattering  out  of 
the  chase.  Next  he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
other  forms  upon  the  nearby  stone.  A  hearty- 
shove  at  one  edge  and  four  pages  more  of  Pioneer 
special  edition  crashed  to  the  floor  in  hopeless  pi. 

It  was  that  dull  thud  which  Pharaoh  heard  as  he 
approached  the  shop. 

Simultaneously  with  the  destruction  of  the  last 
form  the  front  door  of  the  office  opened.  The 
masked  man  heard  it  and  quickly  dodged  into  the 
shadow  behind  a  pile  of  news  stock.  Footsteps, 
after  a  moment  of  silence,  cautiously  advanced. 
The  newcomer  was  now  but  a  half  dozen  feet  from 
the  man  in  hiding,  and  the  latter  could  hear  the 
sound  of  a  match  being  struck,  followed  by  a 
flicker  of  light. 

But  the  match  never  fully  ignited.  It  fell  from 
Pharaoh's  hands  when  suddenly  a  dazzling  electric 


Pi  203 

flash  was  thrown  full  in  his  eyes,  for  the  moment 
blinding  him. 

"Oh,  it's  you,11  the  voice  sounded  distinctly 
relieved.  Then  the  flash  was  extinguished  and 
with  a  rush  the  interloper  made  for  the  door. 
Beside  it  he  paused  for  an  instant. 

"Look  at  the  safe."  This  time  the  voice  was 
very  gruff.  With  this  enigmatical  advice  the 
stranger  was  lost  in  the  night. 

Afterward,  thinking  it  over,  Pharaoh  felt  sure 
that  he  had  heard  a  farewell  chuckle.  But  just 
then  his  one  certainty  was  that  he  would  find  the 
safe  rifled.  However,  that  troubled  him  little,  the 
barrenness  of  its  interior  striking  him  as  an  admir 
able  joke  upon  the  pilferer. 

"Why  didn't  he  try  a  real  safe,  instead  of  a 
printer's,"  he  smiled  to  himself,  as  he  groped  his 
way  into  the  press  room. 

Standing  upon  a  stool,  the  editor  struck  another 
match  and  lit  one  of  the  hanging  lamps  which 
furnished  illumination  for  the  shop.  All  at  once, 
as  he  stepped  down  to  the  floor,  a,n  astounding 
sight  met  his  eyes.  In  one  glance  he  saw  the  mass 
of  caved-in  type  beside  the  press  and  the  other 
forms  in  a  littered  heap  beneath  the  stone.  In 
stantly  the  meaning  of  it  struck  home  to  him. 
Seeing  and  understanding  the  completeness  of  the 
wreck,  Pharaoh's  heart  suddenly  went  cold  with 
the  desolating  shock,  and  he  staggered  and  fell  to 
the  floor  in  a  faint. 

The  third  man  that  evening  to  open  the  Pioneer's 


204         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

office  door  was  James  Failing  who  "dropped  in" 
to  see  how  his  newspaper  progeny  was  progressing. 
Puzzled  at  finding  the  office  dark,  he  moved  toward 
the  light  in  the  rear.  In  the  outer  circle  of  that 
light,  midway  between  it  and  the  office,  he  all  but 
stumbled  on  something  which  made  him  start. 

"What  the  devil  .  .  ."  he  ejaculated,  and  then 
discovered  that  the  dark  something  was  the  form 
of  Pharaoh  Jones,  stretched  out  upon  the  floor. 

The  sound  of  Failing's  voice  startled  the  editor, 
who  had  been  lying  there  for  perhaps  ten  minutes, 
into  semi-consciousness. 

"What's  wrong  here,  anyway?"  continued  the 
manager,  querulously,  leaning  over  Pharaoh,  who 
in  a  few  seconds  was  able  to  sit  up. 

"What  the  devil's  wrong?  .  .  .  that's  what  I 
want  to  know." 

For  answer  Pharaoh  weakly  stretched  out  his 
hand,  still  inarticulate.  Following  its  direction 
the  manager  saw  the  jumbled  heaps  of  metal. 

"What's  the  idea  .  .  .  what's  all  that  litter?" 
Lacking  a  printer's  eye  he  did  not  realize  that  the 
leaden  piles  were  the  gravestones  of  his  cherished 
journalistic  effort. 

"It's  the  special  edition  .  .  .  there  on  the 
floor,"  explained  Pharaoh  weakly.  "The  forms 
have  been  all  smashed  up  ...  there's  nothing 
left  but  pi  ..." 

"You  mean,"  the  manager  cleared  his  throat 
with  an  obvious  effort,  "you  mean  the  paper's 
been  wrecked?  .  .  .  you  can't  finish  the  job?" 


Pi  205 

Pharaoh  nodded. 

"Hell  and  damnation!"  Failing  blazed  into 
fury,  then  all  at  once  was  silent,  too  bitterly  angry 
even  for  words.  "Who  did  it?"  Pharaoh  shrank 
uneasily. 

"I  ...  I  ..."  That  was  as  far  as  his  voice 
could  carry  him. 

"You?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  had  a 
hand  in  it?" 

The  impossibility  of  such  a  supposition  revived 
the  editor.  "God,  no!"  he  expostulated. 

"Who  was  it,  then?  Do  you  know  .  .  .  out 
with  it!" 

Just  then  the  crisp  cannonade  of  hoofs  gal 
loping  across  the  bridge  which  spanned  Welcome 
River  came  distinctly  to  the  ears  of  the  two  men, 
facing  each  other  there  in  the  partial  gloom  of 
the  pillaged  print  shop,  and  the  sound  brought  the 
same  idea  to  both. 

"That's  he,"  thought  Pharaoh.  "Why,  why 
did  he  do  it?" 

Failing  spoke  his  thought  aloud.  "The  dirty 
whelp,"  he  sputtered.  "I  saw  him  with  a  horse 
at  Frost's  barn  early  this  evening — so  he's  turned 
outlaw.  Well,  we'll  cook  his  goose  for  sure  this 
time."  Then  he  swung  upon  Pharaoh.  "The 
paper's  gone  to  hell?  No  chance  to  get  it  out 
now?" 

"Not  for  a  week,  at  least."  The  editor  spoke 
numbly. 

The  manager  eyed  the  wreckage  and  thePioneer's 


206         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

owner  in  turn,  and  his  glance  was  anything  but 
pleasant. 

"I  don't  know  what's  your  part  in  this,  but  I'll 
find  out  soon  enough.  This  much  is  sure  .  .  . 
that  troublemaking  side-kicker  of  yours,  Master 
Davy  Kent,  is  in  for  some  regular  trouble  himself. 
He's  responsible  and  it's  going  to  be  easy  to  hang 
it  on  him.  You  can't  break  into  buildings  and 
destroy  property  and  get  away  with  it  ... 
there's  plenty  in  the  Pen  at  Salem  for  less  crimes. " 


CHAPTER  XXI 

CRETE  HAS  A  PLAN 

VALENTINE  PENNOYER,  Crete,  and  Miranda 
were  grouped  about  the  open  fire  at  the  Company 
House  when  the  manager  stormed  in  upon  them. 

"Everything  going  well  with  your  paper,  I 
hope?'*  Valentine  inquired  languidly. 

11  Well?"  he  fairly  snorted,  glaring  down  at 
the  girl.  Then  he  subsided  into  the  nearest  chair, 
with  a  nervous  attempt  at  laughter.  "Not 
exactly.  At  least  it  didn't  look  so  awfully  fine 
when  I  last  saw  it  ...  that  is,  unless  you  like 
printer's  pi. " 

"Printer's  pie?"  echoed  Valentine,  completely 
puzzled. 

The  sewing  dropped  from  Miranda's  hands. 
"You  don't  mean  to  say  he  dropped  the  forms?" 

"No  indeed,"  he  reassured  her  sourly.  "No 
body  dropped  anything.  Only  an  earthquake 
came  along  all  of  a  sudden  and  busted  things  wide 
open.  The  net  result  is  the  grandest  little  mess 
you  ever  saw." 

Miranda  stared  at  him,  horrified.  "Yes," 
he  nodded,  singling  her  out,  "the  whole  thing  is 

207 


208         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

wrecked  .  .  .  the  forms  were  either  kicked  to 
pieces  or  dumped  on  the  floor  .  .  .  there  isn't  any 
more  special  edition  than  a  rabbit  ..." 

"Poor  Pharaoh!"  Miranda  burst  into  tears. 
The  hard  work  wasted,  the  money  earned  but  now 
not  to  be  received,  the  pity  of  it  all — that  was  her 
first  thought. 

"Poor  Pharaoh?"  The  manager's  voice  broke 
into  a  disgusted  tremolo.  "How  about  me?  .  .  . 
that's  what  I  want  to  know.  Where  do  /  get  off? 
What'll  the  ol'—er— that  is,  what'll  Mr.  Pennoyer 
think?"  Then,  almost  piteously,  he  poured  out 
his  tale  to  Alton  Pennoyer 's  daughter,  telling  her 
of  the  wrecked  special  edition. 

"Who  did  it?"  Up  to  then  Crete  Colton  had 
remained  silent. 

Failing  started  to  speak,  then  halted  with  his 
mouth  half  open,  spellbound  by  a  sudden  appall 
ing  realization. 

"One  of  those  anarchist  settlers,  I  suppose?" 
offered  Valentine,  a  bit  grandly. 

Failing's  objective  anger  had  all  at  once  turned 
to  subjective  pity.  His  immediate  ambition  was 
to  escape  from  the  presence  of  his  employer's 
daughter,  whose  next  act,  he  feared,  would  be  the 
discovery  that  her  fiance  (he  supposed  Kent  to 
be  practically  that)  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trouble. 

Which  was  exactly  what  Valentine  did  do.  Her 
curiosity  aroused,  she  meant  to  know  all  there  was 
to  know. 


Crete  Has  a  Plan  209 

"Yes,  Mr.  Failing  .  .  .  tell  us  who  did  it,"  she 
insisted. 

And  Failing  miserably  cleared  his  throat:  "Da 
vid  Kent!" 

The  blood  rushed  to  Valentine's  face.  Crete's 
expression  changed  not  a  whit,  unless  she  became 
a  shade  paler;  Miranda  stopped  her  crying. 

"Of  course,"  the  manager  added,  a  bit  weakly, 
"it  isn't  proved  yet"  .  .  .  Valentine  was  look 
ing  straight  at  him,  making  him  feel  even  more 
uncomfortable  .  .  .  "but  .  .  .  well,  it's  practi 
cally  certain.  I  saw  him  get  a  horse  about  six 
o'clock  ..." 

"You  mean,"  Valentine  spoke  deliberately,  in 
a  far-away  voice,  "that  you're  sure  Mr.  Kent 
wrecked  the  paper?" 

Failing  nodded.  "Someone  rode  away  on 
horseback  just  after  I  found  Jones.  On  the  way 
over  here  I  scouted  around  a  bit  and  discovered 
where  a  horse  had  been  tied  to  a  tree  near  by — and 
I  also  found  this." 

From  his  pocket  he  took  a  crumpled  empty 
envelope.  Valentine,  silently  and  imperiously, 
held  out  her  hand,  and  the  manager  gave  it  to  her. 
The  envelope  bore  a  typewritten  address,  "Mr. 
David  Kent,  Farewell,  Ore."  She  sat  fingering 
it  a  moment,  silent,  looking  straight  before  her. 
Then  the  gray  eyes  returned  to  the  telltale  bit  of 
paper  and  she  noticed  something  else  about  it. 
The  return  card  of  the  State  Water  Master  was 
in  the  corner. 
14 


210         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Failing  made  a  move  to  go.  He  felt  a  storm 
imminent  and  that  he  might  be  the  object  of  its 
onslaught,  not  because  he  deserved  it  but  because 
he  was  bearing  witness  against  Kent.  The  merits 
of  the  case  didn't  matter,  he  realized. 

But  Valentine  did  the  totally  unexpected,  and 
the  way  she  did  it  was  characteristic. 

"Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Kent  has  gone?" 
Apparently  she  had  accepted  his  guilt  and  felt 
there  was  no  need  for  comment.  From  the 
tightening  of  her  lips  and  a  certain  hardening  of 
the  handsome  face  it  could  be  gathered  that  the 
outstanding  fact  in  her  estimation  was  that  Kent 
had  turned  upon  her  father  in  open  warfare — out 
lawry  existed  to  be  crushed.  .  .  .  Crete  Colton, 
alone  in  that  room,  read  the  aristocratic  face 
aright. 

Failing  did  not  know  and  said  so. 

"Well,  I  do/*  Valentine  announced  coolly. 
"He's  on  his  way  to  Lost  Lake  now,  I  imagine." 

"Lost  Lake?" 

"Yes.  Listen."  And  in  a  businesslike  way — 
the  very  tones  seemed  inherited  from  her  father — 
she  recounted  Kent's  plans  for  securing  the  water 
rights  at  Lost  Lake  just  as  he  had  told  her,  in 
confidence,  that  morning.  "Only  to-day,"  she 
concluded,  "he  said  he  intended  going  up  there 
immediately  to  post  his  notices,  after  which  he'd 
file  at  Salem.  Aren't  there  certain  blanks  neces 
sary?" 

The  manager  nodded. 


Crete  Has  a  Plan  211 

"Well,  don't  you  see?"  she  held  up  the  en 
velope  from  the  State  Water  Master's  office, 
"the  blanks  came  in  this.  He  probably  just  got 
them." 

There  was  absolute  silence. 

"The  thing  to  do, "  said  Failing,  "is  to  swear  out 
a  warrant — we'll  jail  him  for  destroying  property. " 

Valentine  considered  the  proposition  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"Yes,  that's  right  enough  .  .  .  but  how  about 
the  Lake?" 

Failing  grinned,  a  plan  unfolding  in  his  mind. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  file  on  that  water,  Miss 
Pennoyer?"  The  wine-colored  eyes  warmed. 
"I'll  rush  a  couple  of  the  boys  up  there  right 
away  .  .  .  they  can  beat  Kent  to  it,  get  their 
filings  posted  before  he's  wise  to  what's  going  on, 
and  be  back  here  in  time  for  the  stage  day-after- 
to-morrow  morning." 

"But  how  about  Da— Mr.  Kent?" 

"Don't  you  see  ...  when  he  comes  back  and 
starts  out  for  Shaniko  we'll  nab  him  .  .  .  the 
warrant'll  be  all  ready.  Even  if  he  dodges  Fare 
well  and  cuts  cross  country  to  Round ville  it'll  be 
easy  to  catch  him.  Anyway,  he  couldn't  possibly 
get  past  Shaniko — we'd  have  'em  ready  for  him 
there,  sure." 

Valentine  joined  in  these  man-hunting  plans 
keenly.  She  felt  very  much  alive,  very  coolly 
determined — very  much  like  Alton  Pennoyer  in 
action,  had  she  known  it. 


212         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"But  supposing  he  gets  to  Salem  some  other 
way,  and  beats  us?  "  She  did  not  propose  to  have 
any  slip. 

"Impossible.  Salem's  just  about  due  west 
across  the  Cascades.  The  only  way  to  get  there  is 
by  the  railroad  clear  up  to  the  Columbia  and  then 
around  by  Portland.  As  for  me, "  Failing  added, 
"I'll  start  for  Portland  in  the  morning  to  tell  your 
father  how  things  are  coming. " 

"And  I'll  sit  right  down  now  and  write  a  letter 
for  you  to  take  him,"  replied  Valentine.  "After 
all,  it  looks  as  if  we'll  get  something  worth  much 
more  than  that  paper  our  friend  smashed  up. 
Will  you  excuse  me,  Miss  Colt  on?" 

But  Crete  was  gone.  As  the  manager  was  un 
folding  his  plans  she  had  slipped  out. 

"She's  gone  over  to  help  Pharaoh,"  Miranda 
said.  "If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  stay  here  until  he 
comes  for  me." 

"Oh,  certainly."  And,  securing  a  pad,  Valen 
tine  commenced  her  letter. 

"That's  what  she  calls  love!"  Out  in  the  cool 
gloom  of  the  night,  Crete  aired  her  indignant 
opinion.  All  the  generous  loyalty  in  her  nature 
was  ablaze  with  resentment. 

She  found  Pharaoh  seated  in  the  unlighted 
Pioneer  office,  his  head  buried  in  his  arms  on  the 
desk.  Without  a  word  to  him,  Crete  lit  the  office 
lamp,  started  a  fire  in  the  stove,  and  perched  her 
self  upon  a  stool. 


Crete  Has  a  Plan  213 

Presently  the  editor  roused  himself,  raising  eyes 
suspiciously  red.  "Well?"  he  said  miserably. 

"Pharaoh,  cheer  up!  ...  please.11  The  very 
tone  was  steadying.  If  it  were  to  be  a  contest  of 
feminine  wits  there 'd  be  no  emotional  weakness  on 
this  side.  "  Now  tell  me  all  about  it. " 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  he  sighed  wearily. 
"It's  just  all  messed  up  in  there — everything  pied. 
When  I  started  into  the  shop  "  .  .  .he  was  getting 
himself  together  .  .  .  "someone  flashed  a  light 
in  my  face  ..." 

"Who?" 

" 1  don't  know, "  he  lied  loyally. 

"Failing  does." 

"He  suspects  .  .  .  he  can't  be  sure. " 

"That's  the  worst  of  it — he  is  sure.  He  found 
this  out  by  a  tree  where  a  horse  had  been  teth 
ered."  She  handed  him  the  envelope  addressed 
to  Kent  which  she  had  quietly  pocketed,  unnoticed, 
while  the  manager  and  Valentine  talked. 

Pharaoh's  manner  in  receiving  it  showed  Crete 
he  already  knew  who  had  wrought  the  mischief. 
Then  the  girl  picked  up  the  envelope  and  lifting 
the  stove  cover  thrust  it  into  the  fire.  "Exhibit 
A  vanishes!"  she  announced.  "If  we  must  have 
melodrama  let's  burn  the  evidence  in  the  most 
accepted  style. " 

"He  said  something  about  the  safe  ..." 
Pharaoh  just  then  remembered  it. 

"Oh!  ...  I  wonder  if  he  did  a  little  regular 
burglarizing,  for  appearance's  sake?" 


214        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

However,  they  found  the  safe  fast  shut  with  no 
evidence  of  tampering. 

"  You're  positive  he  spoke  about  it?"  She  was 
puzzled. 

"Yes.  It  was  something  about  'looking  in  the 
safe, '  I'm  sure. " 

"Well,  look  then. " 

In  the  safe  they  found  this  message  scrawled 
upon  a  bit  of  copy  paper: 

"Starting  to-night  for  the  Lake  to  post  filing 
notice.  Keep  absolutely  mum. 

"D.  K." 

"All  of  which  is  no  news  over  at  the  Company 
House,"  remarked  Crete,  after  reading  it. 

"Eh,  what's  that?"  Just  then  Pharaoh  was 
thinking  of  the  snow  squall  which  he  and  Miranda 
had  seen  sweeping  over  the  mountains.  And 
Kent — extraordinary  David — was  headed  for  the 
highlands  on  horseback,  alone. 

Crete  told  him,  then,  what  had  happened  at  the 
Company  House. 

"What's  next?"  he  asked  lamely. 

"Easy  enough  to  see,"  she  replied.  "As  soon 
as  David  gets  back  they'll  arrest  him — he  seems 
not  to  have  figured  on  that.  And  in  the  meantime 
Failing's  men  ...  I  suppose  he's  starting  Callier 
right  now  .  .  .  will  have  posted  his  notices  and 
probably  torn  down  David's.  The  rest  is  simple 
.  .  .  while  they're  holding  David  here  for  trial,  or 


Crete  Has  a  Plan  215 

however  it's  fixed,  Callier  will  dodge  down  to 
Salem  and  .  .  .  well,  there  you  are !" 

"  I'm  a  bit  puzzled, "  she  continued  after  a  brief 
silence,  "as  to  just  what  charge  they'll  bring  in 
connection  with  David's  little  house- wrecking  bee 
here  .  .  .  but  trust  them  to  rig  up  something 
that'll  stick  at  least  long  enough  to  put  him  out  of 
the  running.  That's  easy  .  .  .  and  of  course  I 
suppose  he  did  commit  a  crime. " 

Pharaoh  had  some  notions  on  that  head  himself 
— notions  which  had  been  fomenting  as  the  girl 
talked.  But  he  kept  silent. 

Then  some  sudden  new  angle  of  the  situation 
struck  Crete,  causing  her  to  act  in  unprecedented 
fashion.  Smilingly  she  balanced  on  the  arm  of 
the  precarious  editorial  chair  and  putting  her 
strong  young  arms  about  the  editorial  neck  she 
gave  astonished  Pharaoh  the  nicest  kind  of  a  kiss 
which  it  is  possible  for  a  sensible  girl  of  twenty-six 
to  give  a  fatherly  invalid  close  to  fifty. 

"Pharaoh,  you  old  dear,"  she  chortled,  "it's 
not  going  to  happen  that  way  at  all!'* 

The  girl  was  radiant  with  some  secret  inspiration. 

"There's  nothing  to  ...  to  laugh  about." 
He  tried  to  be  gruff. 

"But  there  will  be!" 

And  she  unfolded  a  plan  to  Pharaoh  which  left 
the  emaciated  editor  alternately  experiencing 
throes  of  elated  approval  and  vehemently  protest 
ing  against  the  proposal  with  a  sincerity  which 
was  as  heartfelt  as  it  was  ineffectual. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON  THE  TRAIL,   AND   OFF 

DAWN  unfolded  slowly  that  October  morning 
upon  a  world  cold  and  gray.  Underfoot  the  ground 
was  crisp  with  frost  and  a  fairy  blanket  of  hoary 
white  overlaid  the  needle  carpet  of  the  forest  floor 
and  wove  spidery  crystal  webs  among  the  robust 
foliage  of  the  manzanita.  The  pine  tops  sighed 
uneasily  in  their  lofty  intimacy  with  the  threaten 
ing  skies.  Sun-up  time  came  and  passed,  but  no 
sun  appeared  and  no  autumn  blue  brightened  the 
heavens.  Instead,  the  strengthening  daylight 
showed  legionary  ragged  clouds,  frayed  by  the 
hastening  winds,  surging  southward. 

That  unpromising  dawn  found  two  horses  with 
their  riders  winding  slowly  along  a  blazed  trail 
westerly  from  Farewell. 

At  the  top  of  a  rise,  where  the  sparsity  of  trees 
upon  a  neighboring  rocky  ridge  afforded  a  fairly 
unrestricted  view,  the  first  horseman  stopped, 
allowing  his  companion  to  range  up  beside  him. 
From  his  mackinaw  pocket  the  leader,  who  was 
Dad  Trumble,  extracted  his  pipe,  lit  it,  and  puffed 

216 


On  the  Trail,  And  Off          217 

deliberately  as  he  took  stock  of  the  warnings  in 
the  sky. 

"Cold?  "he  asked. 

His  companion  looked  anything  but  cold, 
despite  the  chill  of  the  hour.  A  trapper's  hat  of 
fur,  illegally  fashioned  from  forbidden  beaver,  a 
fine  thick  coat  made  of  sheepskin  with  the  leather 
out  and  the  wool  in,  and  buccaroo's  leather  chaps 
from  waist  to  ankle  afforded  protection  against 
the  elements  quite  as  thorough  as  could  be  devised 
for  horseback  wear. 

"You  look  like  a  bygod  sheepherding  Basque," 
laughed  Dad,  taking  in  the  details  of  the  outfit. 
"There  ain't  a  sheep  dog  in  the  country  wouldn't 
claim  you  as  a  friend.  But  never  mind  the  looks 
— that's  the  clear  quill  in  rigs  when  it  comes  to 
cold  and  wet  .  .  .  which  I  reckon  it's  coming, 
pronto. " 

"Snow?"  Crete  Colton's  voice  was  just  as 
freshly  comfortable  as  it  had  been  the  preceding 
evening  when  she  unfolded  her  plan  to  Pharaoh 
in  the  Pioneer  office. 

"Yep — and  plenty  of  it."  The  old  woodsman 
sniffed  the  air.  "Can't  you  smell  it?  It's  snow 
ing  up  above  now  .  .  .  we'll  be  into  it  soon.  I'm 
only  hoping  it  won't  come  down  so  plumb  hard  we 
can't  follow  tracks." 

She  caught  his  meaning,  and  both  of  them  were 
silent  for  a  space. 

"Isn't  it  quiet— BO  wonderfully  still!"  The 
girl's  exclamation  was  hushed  as  if  attuned  to  the 


218        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

surrounding  silence  of  Nature.  And,  indeed,  the 
timberlands  were  infinitely  noiseless,  with  never  a 
sound  to  break  the  dead,  pulseless  hush  except 
the  low  moan  of  the  treetops  protesting  in  the 
upper  air,  a  symphony  of  soft  movement  which 
made  the  quiet  appear  even  the  more  profound. 

Dad  nodded.  "You  can  actually  hear  it,  she's 
so  Eternally  still.  That's  always  how  it  is  in  the 
woods  before  a  storm,  'specially  these  first  fall 
blows.  Well,  let's  mosey  .  .  .  it's  a  long  way. " 

A  little  later  he  pulled  his  horse  up  in  a  sandy 
opening  where  the  dry  ground  was  entirely 
unfrozen  and  so  suitably  receptive  for  tracks. 
As  the  girl  came  alongside  of  him  the  old  man 
pointed  out  fresh  hoofmarks,  showing  clearly 
in  the  sand. 

"It's  Dave.  He's  ahead  of  us  all  right.  Two 
or  three  times  down  the  line  I  reckoned  I  seen  his 
trail  but  I  couldn't  be  sartain  sure  what  with  the 
frozen  ground  and  the  bad  light.  How  th'  lad 
managed  to  keep  going  in  the  night  I  don't  see. 
He  couldn't  have  made  much  time  to  speak  of, 
anyway.  I  callate  we've  picked  up  a  couple  of 
hours  on  him,  sure  .  .  .  and  right  here  is  where 
we  gain  another,  just  for  good  measure.  See  that 
bald  ridge  yonder  in  line  with  the  hump  on  the 
Chief  where  it  shows  through  the  cloud?"  She 
saw  the  point,  probably  three  miles  distant,  but 
separated  by  a  broken,  billowing  valley  of  timber, 
thickets,  and  rocky  outpourings. 

"Lost  Lake's  over  yonder.     This  trail  we're  on 


On  the  Trail,  And  Off          219 

goes  way  up  around  the  west  end  of  the  big  draw 
by  Grassy  Lake,  an'  it  takes  a  matter  of  seven 
miles  or  so  to  get  over  there,  when  a  crow'd  make 
it  in  three.  We  ain't  crows,  but  we'll  try  the  short 
cut.", 

He  added  that  it  would  be  well  to  tighten  the 
cinches  as  the  going  would  be  rough.  So  they 
dismounted,  enjoyed  a  welcome  stretch,  ate  a 
sandwich,  and  readjusted  saddle  blankets  and 
cinches. 

"Dad,  I've  been  puzzling  for  the  last  hour/' 
Crete  announced  as  they  remounted. 

"What's  the  puzzle — what  we're  going  ter  do?" 

"  No, "  she  laughed,  "  I  know  that  all  right. " 

"More'n  I  do,  then,"  he  grumbled,  quizzically. 

"You  promised  to  sail  under  sealed  orders — 
and  obey  them,"  she  reminded  him  directly. 
"You  know  the  penalty  for  mutiny?" 

"Yes'm.  Reckon  I'd  be  allowed  to  go  back 
home  where  I  belong  and  get  a  reg'lar  sleep!" 

She  laughed  heartily.  "Poor  old  Dad,  it's  a 
shame  ..." 

"Poor  old  nothing  .  .  .  this  bird  isn't  ripe 
for  an  indignant  old  folks'  home  yet  a  while.  Dod- 
gast  it,  I  can  work  th'  legs  off  any  one  of  the  male 
chickens  they  raise  these  days  an'  when  it  comes 
to  ...  "  but  he  saw  she  was  laughing  at  him  and 
subsided  with  a  snort.  As  a  parting  shot,  he  added, 
"What  does  get  my  goat  is  how  you  can  keep 
agoin'  an'  never  let  me  in  on  the  plans — durn  me 
if  you  ain't  got  the  tarnation  record  when  it  comes 


220        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

to  women  for  keepin'  a  secret  ..."  inviting 
silence;  then — "Well,  Boss — you're  it  all  right — 
what's  the  question?" 

"Where's  Mr.  Callier?  He  must  have  left 
Farewell  about  the  time  we  did." 

"Reckon  I  know,"  he  replied,  evidently  having 
thought  out  the  problem  for  himself.  "You  see, 
that  Callier  ain't  really  acquainted  with  this 
country.  This  here  trail  we  come  on  is  the  regular 
old  Ringo  Trail  but  it  ain't  the  one  the  rangers 
use  to  get  to  th'  lake — that's  over  yonder,  where 
we're  going  now,  t'other  side  of  this  draw.  They 
cut  the  new  trail  to  have  more  ways  of  fire  patrol 
ling  in  summer.  T'other's  the  trail  that  Callier's 
usin'." 

"And  I  don't  suppose  they're  hurrying  a  bit," 
added  the  girl,  questioningly.  "They  think  all 
they've  got  to  do  is  to  reach  the  lake  some  time 
to-day  and  then  get  back  to  Farewell  comfortably 
for  to-morrow  morning's  stage." 

"  'Zactly. "  Clucking  to  his  horse,  Dad  led  the 
way  down  a  steep  pitch,  with  Fantan  following 
his  leader  heroically  while  Crete  leaned  far  back 
in  her  cowboy  saddle,  her  chap-clad  legs  raised 
nearly  to  Fantan's  ears  in  an  effort  to  keep  her 
body  reasonably  vertical,  while  her  arms  hung  at 
her  sides,  with  the  loose- jointed  ease  of  western 
riding  ways. 

As  they  worked  their  way  laboriously  down 
the  slopes,  skirting  now  bowlder-strewn  slides  or 
forcing  their  way  through  tamarack  thickets,  the 


On  the  Trail,  And  Off          221 

snow  squalls  commenced.  First  came  intermit 
tent  gusts  of  damp-scented  wind  and  then  dashes 
of  snow,  driven  cuttingly  by  a  north  wind  which 
shortly  steadied  down  to  the  business  of  bringing 
a  blizzard  with  disquieting  zeal.  Then,  with  the 
freakish  mannerisms  of  mountain  storms,  the  wind 
abated  for  a  time  and  the  snow  came  faster  in 
moist  fluffy  flakes  which  fell  almost  straight  and 
so  amazingly  thick  that  every  sight  was  blotted 
out  except  the  blurred,  downward-moving  wall  of 
whitish  gray.  That  introductory  heavy  fall  con 
tinued  for  but  a  few  minutes,  when  the  wind 
resumed  its  boreal  romping,  swirling  and  tearing 
the  white  curtain  phantastically. 

Enough  descended  in  the  first  deluge  to  coat 
the  ground  and  laden  the  branches  with  moist 
whiteness  which  slapped  dankly  in  their  faces  and 
smothered  horses  and  riders  as  they  crowded 
through  small  growth  and  low-lying  limbs.  It 
became  colder,  too,  and  forthwith  the  moisture 
upon  them  froze,  so  that  the  thoroughly  soaked 
outer  wooliness  of  Crete's  chaps  became  brittle 
and  crackly,  and  the  pinto's  abbreviated  mane 
stuck  up  icily  like  a  stiff  bath  brush. 

Seldom  could  they  see  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  ahead  and  even  then  the  view  embraced 
nothing  more  distinctive  than  a  clump  of  trees,  a 
thicket,  or  a  rocky  ridge  exactly  resembling  scores 
of  neighboring  trees,  thickets,  and  ridges.  A 
dozen  times,  as  her  guide  paused  to  study  the 
landmarks,  Crete  felt  sure  that  they  were  lost; 


222         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

and  each  time,  as  Dad  again  plunged  forward 
with  cheering  assurance,  she  marveled  anew  that 
he  could  keep  his  directions. 

Finally  they  commenced  to  climb,  and  soon 
halted  in  the  lee  of  a  big  fallen  tree,  shattered  by 
lightning. 

"We  came  out  jes  egzakly  right,"  Dad  an 
nounced  with  a  measure  of  justifiable  pride.  "I 
was  a-headin'  for  this  here  down  tree.  It's  only  a 
bit  of  a  lift  now  up  to  the  other  trail. " 

A  few  minutes  later  Crete  saw  a  fresh  blaze 
upon  a  tree  trunk — the  regulation  Forest  Service 
marking  for  trails,  one  large  blaze  with  two  smaller 
notches  below  it. 

"Yep,"  said  Dad,  when  she  called  his  attention 
to  it,  "we  hit  the  trail  back  yonder  on  that  stretch 
of  open  ground.  Only  you  didn't  notice  'count  of 
the  snow  coverin'  it  up." 

"Are  there  any  tracks?"  She  had  been  worry 
ing  about  Callier. 

"Not  on  top  of  the  snow,  anyway, "  Dad  replied 
good-naturedly.  "But  here's  where  I  get  a  look 
at  the  ground — if  they  went  by  before  the  snow 
set  in  it'll  show  here. " 

Dismounting,  he  examined  minutely  the  trail 
where  for  a  few  feet  it  was  bare  of  snow  beneath  the 
thick  branches  of  a  big  tamarack. 

"Nothing  there  for  a  long  spell  .  .  .  see  how  a 
fresh  track  shows  where  the  dirt's  dry?"  He  led 
his  horse  over  the  bit  of  dry  ground,  the  hoofs 
scuffling  up  dark  clods  of  telltale  brown  earth. 


On  the  Trail,  And  Off          223 

"So  our  friends  is  somewhere  behind  us  ...  an' 
not  so  very  far,  neither,  'less  I  miss  my  guess. 
That  is,  unless  they're  afraid  o'  gettin'  their  lovely 
noses  frostbit. " 

Crete  considered  the  possibility. 

"No,  they  wouldn't  turn  back,"  she  opined, 
"it's  a  rush  order  and  too  important  for  them  to 
dare  lie  down." 

"An'  do  yer  'spose  Dave  perhaps  threw  up  the 
sponge  when  the  snow  commenced  gettin'  bad? " 

"Certainly  not!"  the  reply  came  instantly,  al 
most  reprovingly. 

"Thasright,"  he  agreed  hastily,  with  a  twinkle 
she  didn't  see,  "he  ain't  the  quittin'  kind."  To 
which  he  added,  to  himself,  "Nor  you,  neither." 

The  timber  was  behind  them  now  except  for 
scattered  stunted  stragglers,  ghostly  forms  of  white 
showing  grotesquely  against  the  gray  middle 
distance  of  the  ever-falling  flakes.  Among  the 
trees  the  storm  had  seemed  less  serious  and  some 
how  less  real.  Winding  through  them,  indeed, 
surrounded  by  the  myriad  beauties  which  come 
with  snowtime  in  the  forest,  when  each  turn  brings 
fresh  views  of  f airylandish  delight  and  each  gusty 
squall  is  the  signal  for  another  shift  of  scenery, 
Crete  had  found  it  all  quite  pleasantly  theatrical, 
despite  the  small  hardships  of  their  progress.  But 
there  in  the  open,  with  the  chill  breath  of  the  Chief 
blowing  directly  upon  them,  the  surroundings  be 
came  bitterly  wintry.  The  wind  howled  with  an 
unchecked  sweep  from  the  north,  chasing  recurrent 


224         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

squalls  of  crowding  snowflakes  across  the  upland 
waste. 

They  swung  the  unenthusiastic  horses  on  the  way 
out  upon  Wickiup  Flat  which  intervened  between 
them  and  Lost  Lake.  In  summer  this  is  a  great 
rolling  bowlder-strewn  mountain  meadow  land, 
roughly  broken  up  with  wide  flat  surfaces  of  stone 
burnished  blackly  where  glaciers  of  long  ago 
ground  across  them.  Scores  of  tiny  ponds  fed  by 
the  melting  snows  of  winter  and  the  rains  of  spring 
are  scattered  as  chance  wills  in  the  cups  and 
depressions  of  the  plateau.  They  are  pretty  play 
lakes  in  July  and  August  when  the  summer  sky 
reflects  in  their  surface  and  brilliant  upland  flowers 
bloom  about  their  borders,  and  the  whole  expanse 
of  highland  is  green  with  coarse  mountain  grass. 
But  as  the  horses  trudged  across  the  Flat  that 
October  day  it  looked  and  felt  like  a  bleak  Siberian 
wilderness. 

The  storm  had  broken  hours  earlier  up  there  and 
the  snow  lay  deep  upon  the  ground.  The  going 
for  the  horses  became  increasingly  difficult,  as  did 
finding  and  following  the  trail.  Indeed,  Dad  was 
guided  more  by  his  sixth  sense  of  direction  and  the 
general  ''lie  of  the  land"  than  by  any  specific 
beacons,  for  the  occasional  cairns  and  other  mark 
ings  were  already  pretty  thoroughly  hidden. 

As  they  reached  the  point  where  the  trail  dipped 
down  to  their  destination,  where  Dad  had  intro 
duced  Kent  and  Rudd  to  Lost  Lake  not  many 
weeks  before,  the  old  man  looked  back  over  the 


On  the  Trail,  And  Off          225 

way  they  had  come.     Already  little  swirls  of  snow 
were  obliterating  their  tracks. 

"I  hope  ter  hell  she  don't  drift  bad,"  he 
growled. 

"Eh?    What's  that,  Dad?" 

"Oh,  I  only  was  thinkin1  that  sometimes  it's 
easier  to  climb  a  tree  than  to  get  down  again. " 

"Is  there  any  danger?" 

"No  .  .  .  an'  yes.  It  might  be  that  this  here 
pesky  storm'll  kick  up  into  a  reg'lar  whopper  .  .  . 
but  that  ain't  prob'le  this  early  in  the  year. 
More'n  likely  it'll  blow  itself  out  'safternoon. 
'Thout  she  keeps  on  snowin'  good  an'  proper 
everything's  hunky  dory.  .  .  .  Most  anyone 
could  find  his  way  home.  An'  now,  I  'spose,  you 
want  to  go  down  to  the  bygod  lake?" 

"  Surely  .  .  .  and  a  bit  of  fire  won't  feel  badly. " 

"Right  you  are  ...  it  won't.  But  say"  .  .  . 
he  peered  at  what  he  could  see  of  Crete's  face, 
hidden  as  it  was  by  the  icy  fur  of  her  hat  .  .  . 
"what's  the  idee  anyway?  How  long  is  we  to 
rusticate  by  this  bloomin'  open  fire  o'  ours  ?  Don't 
you  think,  Skipper,  it's  'bout  time  to  loosen  up  on 
them  sealed  orders  of  yourn  .  .  .  even  to  a  bygod 
.  .  .  well,  say  a  stoker?" 

Crete  laughed  aloud.  Dad's  perennial  good 
humor  was  comforting. 

"There's  no  great  secret  and  no  doubt  you  know 
just  as  well  as  I  do  what  we've  come  for  ... 
which  is  simply  to  help  David  file  on  these  water 
rights  he  wants." 
is 


226        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Oh  sure, "  he  echoed,  "that's  simple  as  shootin* 
fish.  Only  couldn't  we  have  'complished  that  there 
laud'ble  end,  as  the  feller  sez,  by  jes'  stayin'  ter 
Farewell,  cozy-like,  'thout  mushing  away  up  here?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  we  might  have  stayed  home  .  .  . 
and  let  them  arrest  David  the  minute  he  got 
back!  I'm  sure  he'd  appreciate  our  help. " 

"How  we  goin'  to  stop  them  pinchin'  him?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  the  girl  replied,  "only  at  least 
we  can  warn  him.  Perhaps  he'll  be  able  to  give 
them  the  slip  and  beat  them  to  Salem.  And  I've 
got  another  notion.  In  that  saddlebag"  .  .  . 
she  laid  a  gauntleted  hand  upon  it  ..."  There  are 
filing  papers  to  post  myself.  .  .  .  Pharaoh  dug 
them  up  and  showed  me  just  what  to  do  last  night 
before  we  started.  If  anything  should  happen  so 
that  David  can't  post  his  own  notice  or  if  he 
shouldn't  be  able  to  get  away  to  Salem  to  make 
the  filing  himself,  why,  I  thought  I'd  do  some 
filing  on  my  own  hook. " 

As  they  descended  in  the  lee  of  the  Chief  its 
great  bulk  effectually  broke  the  fury  of  the  storm, 
while  in  the  cuplike  hollow  where  Lost  Lake 
cuddled  in  close  at  the  foot  of  the  talus  slopes 
they  found  far  less  snow  had  fallen  than  out  upon 
the  Flat. 

They  skirted  the  north  side  of  the  lake  between 
the  shore  line  and  the  abrupt  mountain  whose 
heights  were  hidden  in  the  gray  mist  of  the  descend 
ing  flakes.  Here  and  there  tufts  of  meadow 
grass  rose  above  the  snow,  to  the  distraction  of 


On  the  Trail,  And  Off          227 

the  horses.  Most  of  the  lake  was  frozen,  dis 
tinguishable  only  as  a  smooth  flat  surface  of  white 
set  in  a  less  regular  white  mounting.  Only  near 
the  outlet  at  the  western  end  where  a  current 
moved  had  the  ice  failed  to  form,  and  there  the 
patch  of  open  water  showed  jet  black,  a  thin  pale 
mist  hanging  close  over  it  and  the  persistent 
flakes  vanishing  interminably  as  they  reached  the 
inky  water.  The  tamaracks  where  Dad  and  his 
companions  had  camped  in  August  now  drooped 
beneath  their  wintry  burden.  Their  boughs  were 
close  and  strong,  however,  and  where  the  clump 
stood  thickest  considerable  spaces  of  ground  re 
mained  bare. 

In  such  a  spot  the  riders  halted,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  a  little  fire  was  blazing  briskly.  From 
a  saddlebag  Dad  then  extracted  a  battered  lard 
pail  quite  devoid  of  shapeliness  but,  as  he  forth 
with  ascertained  with  relieved  satisfaction,  unleak- 
ing.  The  same  repository  yielded  a  tiny  sack  of 
sugar,  a  piece  of  soiled  rag  tightly  tied  around 
something  which,  it  developed,  was  tea,  a  loaf 
of  bread  esconced  in  a  copy  of  the  Pioneer,  and, 
lastly,  a  greasy  brown  package.  There  were  also 
two  dented  tin  cups. 

"Tea,"  said  the  old  woodsman,  "is  th*  clear 
quill  on  a  trip  .  .  .  it's  hot  an*  comfortin'  and 
don't  weigh  nothing  at  all.  Tastes  fine  even 
'thout  canned  cow  an's  plenty  good  enough 
'thout  sugar  .  .  .  beats  coffee  three  ways  .when 
you're  packing." 


228        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 


"But  Dad"  .  .  .  she  asked,  with  a  chunk  of 
bread  poised  midway  to  her  mouth  .  .  .  "  what's 
the  mystery  in  there?" 

"Mowich,"  Dad's  mouth  was  literally  "too  full 
for  utterance  "  .  .  .  at  least  of  the  clearly  intelligi 
ble  order  .  .  .  "Wansome?" 

"Is  it  to  eat?" 

"Yerbetyer."  Unrolling  the  greasy  paper  he 
displayed  some  slivers  of  soiled  looking  dry  meat. 
He  held  one  up;  its  appearance  was  midway 
between  that  of  a  smoked  herring  and  a  scrap  of 
cowhide.  "Jerky — can't  be  beat  .  .  .  thetasting- 
est  stuff  ever  you  set  yer  teeth  on  and  it  everlast 
ingly  sticks  to  the  ribs." 

She  took  a  sliver  gingerly.  Its  odor  was  in 
keeping  with  its  appearance.  But  the  taste  was 
all  that  Dad  claimed  .  .  .  jerked  venison  is  at 
any  time  a  treat  for  a  healthy  appetite,  and  in  the 
surroundings  of  that  snowbound  meal  it  seemed 
positively  the  essence  of  gastronomic  luxury. 

They  were  eating  in  comfortable  silence  when 
the  girl  happened  to  look  through  the  branches 
along  the  way  they  had  come.  Another  horseback 
figure  was  advancing  up  the  trail. 

"Dad,  look!"  she  whispered.     "Is  it  David?" 

The  old  man  studied  the  horseman  for  a  minute, 
then  spat  disgustedly  in  the  fire.  "No  .  .  .  it's 
that  damn  Callier."  A  new  thought  disturbed 
him.  "Say,  Girl,  it  ain't  exactly  pomme  de  tair, 
as  the  dagoes  say,  for  you  to  be  galavanting  round 
up  here  with  me  .  .  .  even  tho'  I  am  old  enough 


On  the  Trail,  And  Off          229 

to  be  yer  grandad  .  .  .  leastwise,  not  for  skunks 
like  him  ter  talk  about." 

That  sort  of  thing  never  troubled  Crete  in  the 
least,  but  she  saw  the  point  nevertheless. 

'Til  hide  if  you  think  best  .  .  .  there'll  be 
plenty  to  talk  about  before  this  party's  through, 
anyway." 

So  before  the  approaching  horseman  was  near 
enough  to  detect  anything,  the  girl  and  her  pony 
had  slipped  into  the  depths  of  the  thicket  and  the 
old  man  had  contrived  to  obliterate  the  tell-tale 
tracks  so  that  they  were  indistinguishable,  at  least 
on  casual  observation.  The  falling  snow  beyond 
the  shelter  of  the  trees  had  already  cared  for  this 
detail  so  far  as  the  back  trail  was  concerned. 

"Howdy,  Callier." 

The  sales  manager  returned  Dad's  greeting. 
Then  he  sat  silently  regarding  the  old  man,  his 
face  as  expressionless  as  the  snowfield  behind  him. 

"Seen  anything  of  young  Kent?" 

"I  reckoned  you'd  be  waiting  for  him,"  Callier 
replied  dryly,  looking  around  at  the  snow-burdened 
trees  and  frozen  lake.  "Kind  of  a  cozy  place  to 
wait,  ain't  it?  But  say,  01'  Timer"  ...  he  spit 
largely  upon  the  snow,  "you  might  as  well  pack  up 
and  beat  it.  Mister  Kent  ain't  a-going  to  show  up 
to-day." 

"Thasso?"  Dad's  expression  was  as  disinter 
ested  as  the  other's.  "'Z  fer  me,  I  can't  say  he 
made  no  rendevooz.  I  was  jes'  out  prospecting  a 
bit  and  got  caught  up  in  this  blow." 


230        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Then  you  won't  miss  him.  But  as  one  of  his 
pet  friends  you'll  be  interested  to  know  he's  locked 
up  at  Farewell.  At  least"  ...  he  compromised 
with  the  truth,  "he's  arrested,  safe  enough.  I'll 
be  going  now  .  .  .  and  here's  hoping  you  enjoy 
your  visit." 

Dad  watched  Callier  as  he  rode  down  to  the 
outlet  of  the  lake.  He  saw  him  go  to  a  tree  stand 
ing  close  beside  the  little  stream  and  unfold 
something  white  which  he  took  from  his  pocket. 
Then  he  kicked  around  in  the  snow  at  the  water's 
edge,  found  a  small  stone,  and  using  it  as  a  hammer 
tacked  the  paper  to  the  tree  trunk.  That  done,  he 
turned  eastward  and  rode  back  the  way  he  had 
come. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    BRAIN    STORM 

WHEN  he  started  from  Farewell  after  the 
escapade  in  the  Pioneer  shop,  Kent  had  intended 
to  spend  the  night  at  Crowder's  logging  camp,  a 
couple  of  miles  from  town.  But  while  there  were 
no  stars  in  the  sky  it  was  not  excessively  dark 
and  the  rider  found  the  wood  road  so  easy  to 
follow,  the  air  so  pleasantly  crisp,  his  horse  so 
willing,  and  his  own  thoughts  so  exhilarated  that 
by  the  time  the  camp  was  reached  he  abandoned 
the  plan  of  sleeping  there  and  decided  to  push  on. 

The  notion  of  riding  all  night  struck  his  fancy. 
The  sensation  of  action  and  adventure — the  reali 
zation  that  he  was  embarking  upon  something 
difficult  and  a  bit  dangerous — was  stimulating. 
The  entire  undertaking  appeared  pleasingly  pic 
turesque. 

Shortly  after  dawn,  while  he  was  walking  to 
get  the  saddle  stiffness  out  of  his  legs,  a  powdery 
snowflake  flecked  his  hand,  and  as  if  at  a  precon 
ceived  signal,  the  white  downpour  commenced. 
He  could  see  nothing  now  of  the  sky  above — 
nothing  but  the  blurred  haziness  of  millions  of 

231 


232        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

falling  flakes.  In  the  upper  grayness,  the  tree- 
tops  whined  ominously. 

Kent  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Pedro  and 
Pedro  looked  at  him,  with  his  ears  cocked  forward 
inquiringly.  The  horse  whinnied,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "It's  time  to  get  along — preferably  home." 

"All  right,  Peter,  my  lad!"  Brushing  the 
gathering  film  of  snow  from  the  leather  he  swung 
into  the  saddle  and  to  Pedro's  sorrow  kept  his 
head  to  the  west. 

The  further  they  went  the  heavier  lay  the  snow 
upon  the  ground.  Gradually,  as  the  wind  awoke, 
the  orderly,  lazy  fall  became  an  angry  white  deluge 
which  swirled  and  whistled  through  the  branches, 
beating  against  horse  and  rider  with  increasing 
bitterness. 

"If  I  thought  it  would  keep  up  I'd  be  inclined 
to  quit."  Kent  talked  his  thoughts  aloud  for  the 
company  of  it.  "But  it  would  be  a  fool  shame 
to  go  back  after  getting  this  far.  .  .  .  I'd  feel 
awfully  cheap  .  .  .  and  then,  too,  it's  likely  the 
last  chance  to  reach  the  Lake  before  spring.  If  I 
don't  make  the  filing  now  we  can't  do  a  thing  until 
heaven  knows  when." 

If  the  young  man  had  suspected  for  an  instant 
that  others  were  already  on  their  way  to  make 
filings  ahead  of  him  he  would  have  driven  on  to 
Lost  Lake  as  fast  as  Pedro's  legs  could  move, 
blizzard  or  no  blizzard.  But  such  a  possibility  did 
not  occur  to  him. 

He  did  remember,  however,  that  the  barren 


The  Brain  Storm  233 

plateau  of  Wickiup  Flat  intervened  between  him 
and  the  Lake,  and  the  more  he  considered  those 
last  few  miles  in  the  open  the  more  he  realized 
their  difficulties  and  dangers.  It  was  troublesome 
enough  to  keep  the  trail  in  the  timber  and  he 
realized  full  well  how  easily  it  could  be  lost  in  the 
open  wastes  of  the  Flat. 

"  Sloughing  around  all  night  in  the  drifts  out 
there  doesn't  appeal  to  me  for  a  cent,"  he  solilo 
quized. 

Already  the  timber  was  thinning  out  and  he 
knew  he  must  be  close  to  the  edge  of  the  plain,  a 
fact  attested  by  the  increasing  ferocity  of  the 
wind  which  swept  across  the  open  reaches  of  the 
Flat  with  boreal  abandon.  The  storm  seemed 
growing  worse.  Kent  was  bitter  cold  and  Pedro's 
progress  was  increasingly  half-hearted. 

So  he  compromised  with  the  elements.  He 
neither  turned  back  nor  went  ahead.  Instead  he 
guided  Pedro  a  few  rods  off  the  trail  to  a  heavy 
limbed  fir  tree  towering  among  a  group  of  lesser 
neighbors.  Beneath  its  boughs  there  was  shelter 
from  the  falling  snow,  and  the  thicket  partially  sur 
rounding  it,  in  a  large  measure  warded  off  the  wind. 

Having  unsaddled  and  tied  Pedro  the  wayfarer 
kindled  a  fire  upon  a  patch  of  bare  ground  and 
extracted  some  bulky  sandwiches  from  a  saddle 
bag.  The  other  of  the  two  bags,  containing 
sundry  purchases  whose  mysterious  nature  had 
roused  the  unrequited  curiosity  of  the  proprietor 
of  the  Farewell  Hardware  Company,  he  deposited 


234        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

carefully  in  the  immediate  lee  of  the  large  tree. 
Then  he  stretched  out  a  saddle  blanket,  fixed 
the  saddle  itself  as  a  back  rest  and  arranged  himself 
as  comfortably  as  possible  before  the  fire  to  await 
the  developments  of  the  storm. 

Leon  Callier  and  Jeb  Watterson  did  not  leave 
Farewell  until  nearly  five  o'clock  that  morning, 
an  hour  after  Dad  Trumble  and  Crete  had 
started.  Of  the  departure  of  these  two,  Failing's 
agents  knew  nothing,  and,  secure  in  the  belief  that 
their  unsuspecting  quarry — and  he  alone — was 
somewhere  between  them  and  Lost  Lake,  they 
made  no  special  effort  to  hasten. 

All  at  once  Callier,  who  was  in  the  lead,  checked 
his  horse  and  raised  his  hand  warningly.  Through 
a  momentary  lull  in  the  storm  they  heard  a  man's 
voice,  singing. 

''That's  Kent,"  said  Callier,  and  then  con 
sidered  plans.  " How  far  are  we  from  the  Lake?" 

"  About  three  miles,  I  reckon  .  .  .  but  from  here 
it  is  mostly  out  in  the  open  across  Wickiup  Flat. 
It'll  be  God-awful  blowy  out  there." 

"But  it  oughtn't  to  be  hard  to  get  across?" 
Callier  questioned. 

"No-o-o  .  .  .  that  is,  'tain't  usually.  There's 
plenty  of  monuments  along  the  trail  and  unless 
they're  drifted  over  she'd  be  easy  to  find.  It's 
mostly  level  and  the  going's  good." 

"Well,  look  here,  Jeb, "  said  Callier.  " It  seems 
to  me  the  thing  to  do  is  to  grab  this  guy  pronto. 


The  Brain  Storm  235 

It's  just  a  question  of  which  one  of  us  stays  with 
him,  while  the  other  goes  ahead  and  does  the  filing 
...  do  you  think  I  could  find  my  way  all  right?" 

Jeb,  getting  the  point  with  unusual  celerity, 
assured  his  companion  he  should  have  little 
difficulty  in  reaching  the  Lake.  When  it  came  to  a 
question  of  which  one  of  them  was  to  stay  in  com 
parative  comfort  with  the  prisoner-to-be,  while  the 
other  dared  the  arctic  rigors  of  Wickiup  Flat,  Jeb 
had  no  hesitation  in  choosing  the  post  he  preferred. 

Kent  was  suddenly  disturbed  from  his  reveries 
by  a  whinny  from  Pedro.  Looking  up  he  saw 
two  mounted  figures  just  beyond  the  edge  of 
the  sheltering  branches.  Their  noiseless  advance 
through  the  snow  had  been  unnoticed. 

"Howdy,"  he  called  out  cheerily.  "Come 
right  in,  gentlemen  .  .  .  plenty  of  rooms  to-day 
.  .  .  American  or  European  plan,  as"  .  .  .  The 
facetious  greeting  died  in  his  throat,  with  his  first 
clear  glimpse  of  the  leading  visitor's  face. 

" Collier!"  Despite  the  disquieting  fears  which 
welled  up  within  him  as  he  recognized  the  sales 
manager,  Kent  contrived  to  keep  himself  well  in 
hand. 

"Howdy,"  said  Callier,  dryly.  "Receivin' 
callers?" 

Kent,  still  lying  upon  his  blanket,  his  head  and 
shoulders  resting  on  the  saddle,  nodded  as  he  met 
the  sales  manager's  glance  coolly. 

"That  being  the  case,"  said  Callier,  "I'll  intro 
duce  our  mutual  friend,  Jeb  Watterson  .  .  .  who's 


236"       The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

just  now  parading  about  these  parts  as  a  deputy 
sheriff.1' 

As  Callier  spoke  an  inkling  of  their  purpose 
dawned  upon  Kent.  Instinctively  he  straightened 
up  and  was  halfway  upon  his  feet  when  the  ditch 
rider's  cold  voice  checked  him. 

"No,  you  don't!11  The  speaker's  hitherto  hid 
den  hand  had  emerged  from  his  mackinaw  pocket 
holding  an  efficient  looking  revolver  steadily  on 
the  young  man. 

Kent  subsided.  He  realized  he  might  as  well 
take  whatever  was  coming  calmly. 

"That's  bad  medicine,  Callier,"  he  remarked 
quietly,  "threatening  a  law-abiding  citizen  with  a 
gun"  .  .  . 

"Law-abiding  hell!  At  present  writing  you 
ain't  got  no  more  rights  than  a  rabbit.  Has  he, 
Jeb?"  The  deputy  sheriff,  who  had  tied  the 
horses  near  Pedro,  now  stood  beside  Callier,  his 
ruddy  open  countenance  in  marked  contrast  with 
the  shifty  cunning  of  the  other.  He  grinned 
assent. 

"What's  the  point?"  Kent  persisted. 

"Tell  him,  "said  Callier. 

"Duty  is  duty,"  sighed  Jeb,  extracting  a  war 
rant  from  his  vest.  "David  Kent,  you're  under 
arrest"  .  .  .  The  official  pronouncement  was 
delivered  with  commendable  gruffness,  but  the 
subsequent  remarks  seemed  unprofessionally  cor 
dial  if  not  actually  apologetic.  "And  say,  Dave, 
there  ain't  no  use  making  any  fuss.  Just  surrender 


The  Brain  Storm  237 

peaceable  and  decent-like.  This  here  warrant's 
all  hunky  dory  and  there  ain't  no  way  in  the  world 
of  beating  it  ...  leastwise  there  ain't, "  he  added 
with  a  memory  of  bygone  legal  maneuvers,  "till 
you  get  to  one  of  them  lawyer  guys." 

"But  Jeb,  what  am  I  being  arrested  for?"  and 
as  an  afterthought,  Kent  added,  "and  what's 
Brother  Callier's  place  in  the  party  .  .  .  surely 
I'm  not  such  a  desperate  bird  it  takes  two  of  you 
to  cage  me?" 

"I  don't  mind  answering  that  myself,"  put 
in  Callier.  It  was  evident  from  his  tone  that  he 
not  only  did  not  mind,  but  actually  enjoyed  the 
opportunity.  "You're  arrested  for  destroying 
other  people's  property,  and  probably  there'll  be 
a  charge  of  burglary  or  housebreakin'  waiting 
when  you  get  back. "  .  .  . 

"But  whose  property?"  interjected  Kent. 

"Why,  the  Pioneer's  .  .  .  Pharaoh  Jones's,  that 
is  ...  you're  the  one  that  broke  into  his  shop  last 
night  and  smashed  up  a  whole  lot  of  newspaper 
stuff." 

"But,  man,  the  Pioneer  doesn't  be—  '  .  .  . 
Kent's  mouth  hung  open  on  the  incompleted  word, 
and  he  became  abruptly  silent. 

"  I  suppose  my  precious  friend  Failing  cooked  up 
this  little  scheme, "  he  continued.  "That  explains 
your  presence." 

Callier  grinned.  "Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "I'm  only 
assisting  Jeb.  Knowing  it'd  be  such  a  plumb 
lovely  day  up  here  on  Wickiup  Flat  I  just  couldn't 


238        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

help  coming  along."  He  stopped  to  arrange  a 
new  chew  of  tobacco,  enjoying  Kent's  suspense. 
"But  my  real  job  is  over  at  Lost  Lake"  .  .  . 
Despite  the  fact  that  he  had  seen  what  was 
coming,  Kent's  face  became  perceptibly  tense. 
"Ever  been  there,  Mr.  Kent?" 

Just  at  that  minute  the  young  man's  greatest 
ambition  was  to  choke  the  sales  manager.  Unable 
to  gratify  it,  he  concentrated  upon  his  effort  to 
look  unconcerned,  and  said  nothing. 

"Well,"  drawled  Callier,  "I  thought  you  had. 
It's  a  plumb  beautiful  lake  with  plenty  of  water. 
You  can't  have  irrigation  without  water,  can  you, 
Mr.  Kent?"  He  was  fairly  purring  now. 

Again  his  only  reply  was  silence. 

"And  it's  a  freakish  bit  of  water,  that, "  drawled 
on  Callier.  "  I'm  told  you  can  tip  it  either  way. " 
He  chewed  his  cud  reflectively.  "Well,  I  must 
be  going  now.  Jeb  here'll  look  after  you  till  I  get 
back." 

Dropping  the  revolver  in  his  pocket,  Callier 
climbed  on  his  horse.  ' '  And  say,  Mister  Kent ,  j ust 
a  leetle  word  of  advice  from  a  tinhorn  gambler 
.  .  .  Remember  how  you  called  me  a  tinhorn, 
Mister  Kent?  .  .  .  When  you've  got  a  good  hand 
don't  never  go  and  tell  no  one  about  it  until  the 
bets  are  made  .  .  .  especially  a  woman !" 

And  with  that  the  sharp-faced  sales  manager 
started  westerly  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm. 

"The  dirty  skunk!" 

"Uh-uh. "    Jed's  comment  on  this  characteri- 


The  Brain  Storm  239 

zation  of  Callier  could  be  interpreted  as  either 
negative  or  affirmative. 

But  Kent  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  to 
notice  whether  or  not  the  deputy  agreed  with  him. 
The  ditch  rider 's  parting  shot  had  hit  home  .  .  . 
not  a  straight,  manly  blow,  to  be  sure,  but  a  foul 
below  the  belt,  which  hurt  all  the  more  because  it 
came  unexpectedly. 

"  When  you've  got  a  good  hand  never  tell  about  it 
until  the  bets  are  made. " 

What  did  Callier  mean?  When  had  he  heard 
that  advice  before?  It  sounded  oddly  familiar 
.  .  .  Then  it  came  to  him ;  there  flashed  back  into 
his  mind  his  talk  with  Valentine  .  .  .  he  himself 
had  said  almost  those  very  words  when  the  girl 
had  asked  why  he  did  not  at  once  tell  her  father 
of  the  Lost  Lake  plan. 

"Especially  to  a  woman!" 

Callier,  with  his  ugly  sneer,  had  said  that,  too — 
and  what  his  insinuation  meant  was  as  clear  as 
the  driven  snow.  Callier  was  as  good  as  telling 
him  that  the  woman  to  whom  he  had  shown 
his  hand  had  tipped  him  off  ...  that  Valentine 
Pennoyer  had  betrayed  his  confidence,  abjectly. 
That  was  all  he  comprehended,  all  that  mattered, 
as  he  laid  his  head  on  his  arm  there  upon  the  cold 
ground.  For  the  minute  all  the  warm  courage 
and  resolve  ran  out  of  him.  He  felt  unutterably 
broken  and  actually  physically  sick,  with  that 
sudden  numbness  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach  which 
many  a  brave  man  has  known.  It  was  the  girl 


240        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

who  mattered  most,  and  what  the  girl  had  done. 
Nothing  else  counted;  it  was  all  a  weary  waste  of 
effort. 

"Never  mind,  lad,  it's  not  so  bad.  Them 
lawyer  fellers*!!  get  you  out  of  it  all  right. "  Jeb 
misinterpreting  Kent's  collapse  tried  to  cheer  him. 

The  deputy  was  easygoing  kindness  personi 
fied,  with  a  disposition  of  almost  childish  trustful 
ness  which  saw  the  duty  immediately  before  it  but 
little  else.  Persistency  was  his  besetting  virtue, 
a  very  real  one  in  a  deputy  whose  occasional  avo 
cation  is  man-chasing. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  worrying  about  your  damn  war 
rant,"  Kent  growled  testily,  pulling  himself  to 
gether.  "That's  the  least  of  my  troubles." 

"Uh-uh?"  That  sounded  curious  to  Jeb.  A 
glimmering  suspicion  that  perhaps  his  quarry  was 
"wanted"  for  a  bigger  crime  than  simply  destroy 
ing  property  filtered  through  his  mind.  He  grasped 
his  revolver  more  firmly. 

"Say,  Jeb,"  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  one 
hand  beneath  him,  "where' s  Cal  ..." 

He  stopped  in  astonishment,  looking  into  the 
muzzle  of  the  deputy's  weapon. 

"Now  let's  see  that  other  hand"  ...  the 
cautious  Jeb  admonished  ...  "so  ...  that's 
better.  And  just  keep  'em  both  in  sight,  please. " 

Kent's  sense  of  humor  was  stronger  than  his 
impulse  to  be  angry.  It  was  the  second  time  in 
his  life  he  had  intimately  viewed  the  business  end 
of  a  revolver. 


The  Brain  Storm  241 

"Gosh!"  he  sighed  resignedly,  "  there's  more 
guns  out  in  this  blizzard  than  I  ever  saw  before. 
Now  look  here,  Jeb,  I  don't  like  you  to  point  that 
cannon  at  me.  It  doesn't  seem  .  .  .  well,  exactly 
friendly." 

The  conversation  was  a  bit  confusing,  but  Jeb 
remained  unrelenting.  ' '  Gotagun  ? ' ' 

"  Good  Lord,  no !  I  never  carried  one  in  my  life. 
Just  take  a  look  and  see  for  yourself."  Kent 
held  his  hands  aloft  while  Jeb  cautiously  poked 
his  pockets  and  other  likely  abiding  places  of  a  six 
shooter. 

Much  relieved,  Jeb  stepped  back. 

"Say,  looky  here,  Dave,  I've  a  proposish  for 
you.  I  don't  want  ter  be  sittin'  up  here  coverin' 
you  like  a  hoss  thief  an'  I  reckon  it  t ain't  needed, 
but  in  course  I  can't  take  no  chances.  But  if  you'll 
give  me  your  word  you  won't  try  to  get  away  it'll 
be  all  right  with  me  .  .  .  your  sayso's  good  here. " 

"That's  sensible,  Jeb.  Of  course  I'll  give  you 
my  word  ...  I  promise  not  to  try  to  get  away 
so  long  as  you're  with  me. " 

"An'  you  won't  try  to  get  my  gun?" 

To  that  Kent  also  agreed,  so  prisoner  and  jailer 
speedily  established  an  entente  cordial  under  whose 
beneficent  influence  Jeb's  holster,  with  its  gun, 
was  hung  on  a  knot  against  the  fir  tree's  trunk 
while  its  proprietor  replenished  the  wood  supply. 

"And  now  tell  me  where  Callier  has  gone?" 

Watterson  complied,  recounting  all  he  knew  of 
Callier 's  plans  to  file  on  Lost  Lake.  Kent  took 

16 


242        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

the  news  quietly.  He  had  already  anticipated 
the  plans  of  his  adversaries,  and  what  made  his 
blood  boil  was  the  realization  of  how  well  they 
were  working  out. 

He  seemed  so  helpless,  so  well  beaten.  And  he 
hated  to  be  beaten!  He  had  determined  to  win. 
Was  there  no  way  out  of  it?  Again  and  again  he 
asked  himself  that  question,  and  could  find  no  an 
swer.  Could  he  but  reach  Lost  Lake  ahead  of  Callier  I 

"If  I  could  only  post  the  notice  there'd  be  some 
chance  of  beating  them  out  at  Farewell,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "At  least  I  could  give  bail  and  get 
down  to  Salem  at  the  same  time  Callier  did. 
There  I'd  have  the  same  chance  as  he,  and  perhaps 
a  better  one  when  they  heard  my  story. " 

But  why  waste  energy  in  hopeless  wishing?  He 
was  a  prisoner,  guarded  by  a  friendly  jailer  to 
whom  he  had  given  his  word  not  to  try  to  escape. 
He  felt  certain,  without  testing  the  question,  that 
honest  Jeb  could  not  be  bought  off  ...  he  might 
be  circumvented,  but  never  purchased.  And 
Kent,  pondering  the  problem,  cursed  himself  for 
having  promised  anything;  at  least  it  would  have 
been  worth  while,  and  rather  exhilarating  at  that, 
to  have  tried  physical  conclusion  with  the  deputy. 

Round  and  round  the  hopeless  circle  Kent's 
thoughts  wandered,  while  he  cuddled  close  to  the 
fire  and  damned  the  driving  snow  which  had 
brought  on  all  this  trouble.  Then  suddenly  an 
idea  struck  him,  and  he  sat  very  still  for  many 
minutes,  working  out  its  details. 


The  Brain  Storm  243 

Jeb  smoked  complacently  at  the  other  side  of 
the  fire.  Noting  his  companion's  long  silence,  he 
offered  something  jocular  about  not  getting  the 
blues.  But  instead  of  answering,  Kent's  teeth 
began  to  chatter,  and  the  more  he  apparently  tried 
to  control  them  the  more  they  shook,  until  his 
whole  body  seemed  gripped  with  ague. 

Kent  pointed  at  his  head.  Finally  he  managed 
to  gasp,  "It  hurts  ...  my  God,  how  it  hurts!" 
Then  the  paroxysm  passed,  and  the  sufferer  quieted 
and  for  a  time  remained  rigid  and  motionless,  his 
eyes  closed  and  his  lips  convulsively  forming 
unspoken  words. 

Jeb  was  genuinely  disturbed.  He  didn't  know 
what  to  make  of  it  or  what  to  do.  Then  Kent 
.seemed  to  regain  control  of  himself.  His  lips  were 
still.  His  eyes  again  opened,  groping  about  with  a 
puzzled  look.  Meeting  the  troubled  gaze  of  the 
good-hearted  deputy  they  all  at  once  cleared  up 
as  if  full  understanding  had  returned  to  the  brain 
behind  them. 

"Oh,  Jeb"  .  .  .  the  voice  was  shaken,  apolo 
getic  .  .  .  "I'm  so  sorry  .  .  .  so  ashamed.  You 
see,  these"  .  .  .  but  Kent's  feelings  overcame 
him,  and  burying  his  head  in  his  hands  his  body 
shook  with  sobs. 

"Now,  now,  Lad,  take  it  easy,"  counseled 
Jeb  gently,  patting  the  shaking  shoulder.  "S'all 
right  .  .  .  everything's  all  right." 

Bravely  the  young  man  nodded,  wiping  away 
the  tears  as  he  raised  his  head. 


244        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"It's  good  of  you,  Jeb  .  .  .  good  of  you." 
Just  what  was  good  of  him  Jeb  didn't  know,  but 
he  felt  appreciative.  "You  see,  Jeb,  it's  just  this 
I  feared  .  .  .  it's  an  old  weakness.  I  ...  that 
is"  .  .  .  he  hesitated,  as  if  ashamed  to  make 
the  disclosure,  then,  seemingly  realizing  the  neces 
sity  of  it,  plunged  on  gulpingly.  "It's  up  here, 
Jeb,  old  friend. "  He  tapped  his  forehead.  "Ever 
since  I  had  typhoid  they  come  on  me  .  .  .  especi 
ally  when  I'm  played  out.  And  I  suppose  it's 
being  up  and  riding  all  night  with  nothing  to  eat, 
the  cold  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  the  excitement  and 
the  storm  and  all  that  which  has  brought  it  on 
now  .  .  .  Oh,  God!" 

Jeb's  arm  steadied  him  as  he  swayed,  moaning. 

"Yes,  it's  them,  all  right  .  .  .  the  second  one's 
due  now  any  minute." 

"Fits?"  The  deputy  had  a  profound  horror  of 
mental  derangement.  He  positively  feared  the 
insane. 

"About  the  same  thing,"  Kent  assured  him 
wanly.  "  Sort  of  temporary  insanity.  Only  lasts 
half  an  hour  or  so  but  it's  awful  while  it's  on. 
Head  feels  all  red  hot  .  .  .  Listen,  Jeb. "  He 
grabbed  his  companion's  horny  hand  in  his,  and 
the  deputy  could  have  sworn  that  hand  was  fever- 
hot  already.  "I  just  hate  to  make  such  a  mess 
of  things  but  you've  got  to  know  about  it — know 
what  to  do." 

"Do?  Me  do?"  Jeb's  echo  was  weak.  Kent 
raced  on  in  a  burning  disquieting  whisper. 


The  Brain  Storm  245 

"Yes.  Pretty  soon  now  I'll  go  entirely  off 
my  head.  It  won't  last  long  but  it's  fierce  while 
the  spell's  on  me.  And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  Jeb,  I'm 
awfully  dangerous,  they  tell  me  ...  For  God's 
sake  keep  that  gun  away  .  .  .  don't  let  me  see 
it  ...  don't  you  dare  touch  it.  ...  There's 
just  one  way  to  handle  me,  the  doctors  say"  .  .  . 
he  gasped  for  breath.  Clearly  the  fit  was  hard 
upon  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Jeb,  bending  over  him,  was  all 
anxious  eagerness. 

"It's  just  to  humor  me  .  .  .  don't  forget  that. 
...  I'm  likely  to  do  anything  and  want  any 
thing  .  .  .  and  let  me  do  just  what  I  want  to 
.  .  .  don't  argue  .  .  .  don't  try  to  stop  me. 
Once"  .  .  .  Kent  gasped  for  breath  .  .  .  "once 
when  I  had  one  of  'em  at  a  hospital  and  wanted 
to  get  out  of  bed  a  fool  nurse  ...  a  man,  too  .  .  . 
tried  to  stop  me"  .  .  .  there  ensued  a  palpitat 
ing  silence  .  .  .  "the  .  .  .  poor  .  .  .  fellow  .  .  . 
didn't  .  .  .  recover  ...  for  a  month  ...  it 
was  awful  the  way  I  ...  mangled  him." 

The  last  words  came  out  jerkingly.  Then  all 
at  once  the  stricken  one  screamed  in  anguish  and 
clapping  both  hands  to  his  head  doubled  up  upon 
the  ground,  rolling  about  wildly  and  moaning  like 
a  Beduin. 

The  details  of  those  early  spasms  need  not  be 
recorded.  Suffice  to  say  that  shortly  they  wore 
off,  ushering  in  the  third  and  most  trying  stage  of 
the  paroxysm. 


246        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

In  this  Kent  regained  the  use  of  his  limbs.  His 
eyes  apparently  could  see,  but  they  were  strangely 
fixed  and  glassy.  He  moved  and  looked  and  even 
spoke  like  a  sleep-walker,  or,  say,  a  madman  in  a 
play.  Whatever  the  style,  it  was  terribly  dis 
concerting  to  Jeb,  who  stayed  safely  out  of  reach, 
always  contriving  to  keep  the  fire  between  himself 
and  his  demented  prisoner,  and  devoutly  hoping 
the  convulsion  would  end  speedily.  He  didn't 
in  the  least  fancy  being  left  alone  there  in  the 
wilderness  with  this  epileptic  maniac  and  cursed 
his  luck  heartily  because  he  had  not  gone  to  the 
lake  and  left  Callier  with  Kent.  And  the  thought 
of  Callier  out  there  in  the  blizzard  made  his  heart 
sink  .  .  .  suppose  this  lunatic  should  take  the 
notion  to  decamp?  What  could  he  do?  How 
ever  could  he  hope  to  control  or  stop  him?  .  .  . 
He  soberly  recollected  the  fate  of  that  nurse  who 
had  crossed  Kent  .  .  .  supposing  the  madman 
attacked  him,  perhaps  killed  him,  and  then  wan 
dered  away  to  be  lost  and  die  in  the  storm?  Jeb's 
slow-going  mind,  once  unloosed,  performed  miracles 
of  dismal  foreboding. 

But  fortunately  the  afflicted  young  man  seemed 
possessed  with  no  homicidal  intentions. 

"Good  old  Jeb!"  he  muttered  time  and  again, 
smiling  sillily  and  apparently  seeing  nothing  at 
all.  "Good  old  Jeb  .  .  .  Godbless'm." 

Swaying,  with  arms  stiffly  outstretched  before 
him,  he  moved  to  the  tree  where  his  saddle-bag 
hung  and  groped  in  it.  Seemingly  he  found  what 


The  Brain  Storm  247 

he  wanted,  for  all  at  once  he  commenced  gibber 
ing  inanely — half  whimpering  .  .  .  and  when  he 
turned  Jeb's  heart  sank  in  his  boots,  for  the  poor 
fellow's  mouth  was  now  foaming  and  frothy. 

Still,  however,  he  was  safe.  At  least,  Kent  paid 
no  attention  to  him.  His  one  thought  seemed  to 
be  the  package  he  had  taken  from  the  saddle  bag. 
This  he  hugged  ardently  in  his  arms,  crooning  a 
gibbering  lullaby  with  his  horrible  frothing  lips  as 
he  took  it  back  to  the  fire  and  sank  to  the  ground, 
cross  legged.  Slowly,  carefully,  tenderly  he  undid 
the  fastenings. 

Jeb's  eyes  followed  every  movement,  wide  and 
staring.  But  this  apprehensive  suspense  was  as 
nothing  to  the  good  deputy's  consternation  when 
the  contents  of  that  package  were  disclosed. 

"Mother  of  God!"  he  ejaculated.  "It's  dyna 
mite!'1 

Which  it  was — two  gray  soapy  looking  sticks, 
cased  in  their  greasy  skins  of  paper.  Why  Kent 
had  brought  them  all  that  distance,  safeguarded 
from  explosive  jolts  solely  by  the  extra  flannel 
shirt  in  which  the  package  had  been  tucked, 
only  Kent,  with  his  unspoken  plans  concerning  the 
waters  of  Lost  Lake,  knew.  And  Kent,  of  course, 
was  clear  and  clean  out  of  his  head,  beyond  the 
possibility  of  explanations  immediate,  or,  should 
the  dynamite  explode,  remote. 

"And  caps ! ' '  Jeb  voiced  his  second  observation 
in  a  horrified  whisper. 

For  the  insane  young  man  also  had  in  his  hands 


248        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

two  copper  firing  caps,  the  little  "ticklers'*  which 
are  rammed  down  upon  the  sticks,  causing  the 
dynamite  itself  to  detonate  when  the  fire  of  the 
fuse  reaches  them. 

Jeb's  knees  were  actively  clanking  together  by 
now.  Pop-eyed,  he  watched  the  operations  across 
the  fire,  like  a  bird  charmed  by  a  snake.  Poor 
Jeb  was  hypnotized  .  .  .  hypnotized  with  fright. 
Cold  perspiration,  dripping  down  over  his  eyes, 
clouded  the  details  of  the  impending  tragedy. 

And  there  sat  the  insane  Kent,  presumably  in 
the  midst  of  the  final  paroxysm  of  his  horrible 
malady,  gibbering  vacantly  and  intently  fastening 
a  cap  to  one  of  the  sticks. 

"For  the  love  of  God!"  The  deputy's  cry  was 
anguished. 

Kent's  hands  stopped.  His  lips  ceased  moving. 
For  an  instant  he  seemed  frozen  almost  into  con 
sciousness,  back  to  reason.  Then  a  diabolical 
crafty  smile  distorted  his  face,  with  its  slobbering 
mouth  and  froth-smeared  chin. 

"Ha,  ha!"  he  cackled  wildly,  then  tried  to  look 
across  the  fire  at  Jeb,  but  with  foolish  set  eyes  that 
seemed  to  see  nothing,  like  a  sodden  drunken  man 
endeavoring  to  appear  soberly  dignified.  "Jeb, 
ol*  frien',  does  dynamite  freeze?" 

Jeb's  terror  stricken  lips  could  frame  no 
answer. 

"  Br-r-r !  It's  bitter  cold  up  here,  Jeb  ol*  friend. 
I'm  frozen  .  .  .  that's  what  makes  my  head  hurt 
so.  And  if  I'm  frozen  why"  .  .  .  the  smile  was 


The  Brain  Storm  249 

sly  with  the  logic  of  insanity  .  .  .  "of  course 
the  dynamite's  frozen  too.  But  it  mustn't  be 
frozen,  Jeb,  ol'  friend  .  .  .  that  wouldn't  do  at  all. 
So  what  will  David  do?"  .  .  .  he  was  holding 
one  stick  in  his  hand  now,  fondling  it  like  a  doll 
and  talking  to  it.  And  Jeb,  to  his  infinite  horror, 
saw  that  he  had  attached  the  firing  cap  which 
would  explode  the  stick  the  moment  it  was  struck 
or  ignited.  "So  David  will  warm  the  poor  HI* 
frozen  stick.  He'll  just  make  a  nice  warm  place 
here  in  the  fire  first." 

With  a  bit  of  branch  in  his  free  hand  the  crazed 
man  was  patting  out  a  resting  place  among  the 
red  coals. 

Then  he  lifted  the  dynamite,  leaning  forward  so 
as  to  place  it  in  the  fire  where  it  would  fall  among 
the  hottest  embers  .  .  .  and  Jeb  waited  to  see  no 
more.  With  a  heartbreaking  shriek  he  rushed 
to  his  horse,  fortunately  still  saddled,  and  just  as 
the  explosion  came,  horse  and  rider  crashed  off 
through  the  low  branches,  the  panic-stricken 
deputy  yelling  with  horror. 

When  Jeb  subsequently  swore  that  he  had  heard 
the  report  of  the  explosion,  occurring  just  as  he 
swept  from  under  the  tree,  he  was  adhering  strictly 
to  the  truth.  There  was  an  explosion.  It  fol 
lowed  immediately  the  forward  toss  of  Kent's 
hand.  But  it  was  the  explosion  of  a  firing  cap. 

Thrown  in  the  edge  of  the  embers  furthest  from 
him,  the  cap  promptly  went  off  with  a  startling 
report  .  .  .  enough,  coupled  with  the  violent 


250        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

departure  of  Jeb  and  the  other  horse,  to  frighten 
Pedro  out  of  all  sense  of  discipline ;  rearing  back  in 
terror  he  broke  his  tie  rope  and  galloped  off  down 
the  home  trail. 

Kent  wiped  the  ashes  from  his  eyes,  blown  there 
by  the  miniature  explosion.  Aside  from  further 
soiling  his  already  soap  lathered  face  no  damage 
had  been  done. 

"Well,  I've  lost  my  jailer, "  he  said  to  himself. 
"If  he'll  only  stay  lost.  It's  no  joke,  though, 
about  Pedro  running  off  ...  perhaps  he'll  come 
back." 

"Jeb  can't  say  I  didn't  play  square  with  him 
anyway."  he  addressed  the  fire  argumentatively. 
"I  promised  I  wouldn't  run  away  or  grab  his  gun 
and  I  didn't  .  .  .  He  did  the  running  away." 
He  chuckled  at  the  thought  of  the  deputy's  hasty 
decampment.  "But  if  I  loaf  around  here  first 
thing  I  know  brother  Jeb'll  be  coming  back  to 
bury  the  pieces  of  his  poor  insane  friend.  Ugh! 
That  soap  tasted  like  the  devil!"  He  wiped 
the  suds  from  his  face  and  removed  the  taste  of  his 
made-to-order  froth  from  the  inside  of  his  mouth 
as  best  he  could. 

"We'll  move  now,  horse  or  no  horse.  I'm  going 
to  get  to  that  durned  lake  or  know  the  reason 
why."  And  with  that  he  started  to  replace  the 
two  sticks  of  dynamite  in  the  shirt  when  a  new  idea 
suddenly  struck  him.  After  a  momentary  con 
sideration  he  adopted  it,  chuckling  delightedly. 

"I  hate  to  ruin  the  saddle,  and  it's  a  shame  to 


The  Brain  Storm  251 

make  Callier  put  on  crepe  .  .  .  but  the  job  may 
as  well  be  finished  right. " 

Quickly  he  imbedded  another  cap  in  one  of  the 
sticks  of  dynamite.  Then  from  the  saddle-bag  he 
took  out  a  small  coil  of  fuse,  from  which  he  cut  off 
three  feet  or  so,  fastening  one  end  to  the  cap. 
Next  he  burrowed  out  with  his  feet  and  a  stout 
stick  a  depression  close  beside  the  fire  where  he  had 
been  sitting  and  placing  the  dynamite  stick  at 
the  bottom  covered  it  over  with  as  much  dirt  as 
he  could  scrape  up,  adding  all  available  bits  of 
branches  and  a  few  heavy  stones.  Lastly  on  top  of 
all  he  rolled  a  sizable  log,  draped  the  saddle  over  it, 
and  as  a  final  detail  hung  Jeb's  holster  on  the  horn. 

He  fastened  up  the  saddle-bags  then,  one  con 
taining  the  remaining  stick  of  dynamite  carefully 
wrapped  in  the  flannel  shirt,  and  arranged  them 
over  his  shoulders,  the  straps  across  and  around  his 
neck  and  chest,  the  bags  themselves  hanging  down 
his  back. 

"Here  goes  .  .  ."  The  match  met  the  end 
of  the  fuse. 

And  as  David  Kent  dodged  off  into  the  thicket, 
the  flame  licked  briskly  toward  the  buried  dyna 
mite,  and  then  with  a  dull  roar  and  a  spout  of  dirt 
and  debris  came  the  explosion. 

" Reqitiat  in  pace  David  Kent  .  .  .  esquire.'* 
Kent  looked  back  at  the  smoking  volcano  beneath 
the  tree,  and  hunching  his  burden  into  position 
trudged  westerly  out  upon  storm  swept  Wickiup 
Flat. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

LOST  AND  FOUND 

AN  hour  after  he  started  out  afoot  in  his  des 
perate  effort  to  reach  Lost  Lake,  David  Kent  was 
hopelessly  lost.  Out  in  the  midst  of  Wickiup 
Flat  where  already  drifts  were  driving  over  the 
low  landmarks  and  the  snow  came  down  so 
steadily  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the 
blanket  of  white  on  the  ground  and  the  slanting 
flakes  in  the  air,  he  ploughed  forward  steadily 
until  somehow,  despite  the  wind  which  should 
have  been  his  guide,  he  became  confused  and  lost. 

Kent  trudged  along  doggedly,  all  his  senses  alert 
to  catch  any  sight  or  sound  which  might  guide 
him.  By  now  he  was  prodigiously  tired  and  under 
stood  fully  the  gravity  of  his  situation.  He  was 
genuinely  lost,  and  to  be  lost  in  a  snowstorm 
on  this  mountain  plateau  was  serious  business. 
And  yet  he  could  not  comprehend  how  he  had  lost 
himself,  for  he  had  exercised  every  caution  to  keep 
the  north  wind  coming  directly  on  his  right  hand, 
feeling  sure  that  by  progressing  westward  he 
would  soon  strike  the  draw  which  lead  to  Lost 
Lake.  But  he  had  come  more  than  the  two  miles 

252 


Lost  and  Found  253 

that  should  have  intervened,  and  there  was  no 
sign  of  any  depression — only  the  everlasting  gray 
expanse  of  the  plain. 

Finally  the  lost  man  stopped  entirely.  Unless 
the  storm  let  up  he  saw  no  prospect  of  finding 
either  the  Lake  or  himself.  And  the  storm  did  not 
abate,  but  instead  its  gusts  swept  down  upon  him 
with  increasing  rigor.  He  was  near  the  point 
of  exhaustion  .  .  .  the  hard  experiences  of  the 
last  twenty-four  hours  had  sapped  his  strength 
and  the  cold  was  finishing  the  work.  His  mind 
felt  utterly  weary  .  .  .  determination  and  com 
bative  power  were  at  a  low  ebb.  It  was  all  he 
could  do  to  resist  the  impulse  to  throw  away  the 
saddle-bags  and  sink  down  in  the  snow  for  a 
rest  .  .  .  a  rest  .  .  .  yes,  that  was  what  he  craved 
...  if  he  could  only  rest  .  .  .  could  escape  this 
damnable  snow  ...  if  he  could  only  see  some 
thing — anything  but  the  everlasting  gray  driving 
flakes.  He  felt  himself  slipping  .  .  .  losing  his 
grip  .  .  .  and  dumbly  he  realized  the  danger  of 
surrender.  He  must  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip. 

" Don't  lose  your  head,  lad,"  he  whispered  to 
himself. 

And  with  a  supreme  mental  effort,  which 
seemed  positively  to  wrack  him,  he  pulled  himself 
together  and  took  stock  of  the  situation.  Clearly, 
the  only  sensible  thing  was  to  try  to  get  back  to  the 
timber.  He  knew  that  his  back  track  would  be 
swallowed  up  in  the  snow,  but  with  the  wind  for  a 
guide  at  least  he  could  find  the  trees  somewhere  at 


254        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

the  fringe  of  the  Flat,  and  thence  there  would  be 
some  hope  of  regaining  the  trail  or  even  encounter 
ing  Callier  or  the  deputy.  To  stay  where  he 
was,  or  persist  in  the  ill-fated  effort  to  reach 
the  lake,  was  simply  to  court  disaster.  He  was 
beaten.  That  was  clear. 

So  he  turned  back.  As  he  did  so  his  eyes 
detected  an  irregularity  in  the  snow  a  dozen  feet 
away,  a  little  rough  place  just  in  the  lee  of  a 
rounded  drift,  from  whose  top  extended  a  bit  of 
stick,  weather-beaten  almost  as  white  as  the 
surrounding  snow  itself.  It  struck  him  as  curi 
ously  inexplicable,  unless  some  animal  had  made 
it.  With  dull  curiosity  he  stumbled  over  to  the 
spot. 

For  an  instant  Kent  gazed  down  dully  upon  that 
patch  of  roughened  snow.  Then  all  at  once  he 
fell  to  his  knees,  better  to  see  the  exact  nature 
of  the  track.  And  track  it  was  .  .  .  the  unmis 
takable  imprint  of  a  horse's  hoof,  pointing  to  his 
left,  showed  clearly.  Apparently  it  had  been 
kept  uncovered  through  some  freak  of  the  wind 
which  syphoned  down  over  the  steep  little  drift 
keeping  almost  clear  a  space  just  in  its  lee. 

"It's  a  fresh  track  —  made  since  the  snow 
started,"  he  argued  to  himself. 

But  whose  track ?  And  whither  headed  ?  Could 
it  possibly  be  Callier's?  If  so,  his  heart  sank 
realizing  how  hopelessly  he  was  confused,  for 
according  to  his  calculations  that  track  was  headed 
south,  while  in  reality,  if  it  were  Callier's,  it  should 


Lost  and  Found  255 

have  been  proceeding  west.  Then  it  occurred 
to  him  that  perhaps  it  was  the  ditch  rider's  horse 
returning  from  the  Lake.  But  that  only  made 
matters  worse.  Clearly,  the  wind  had  played 
some  devilish  trick  upon  him  and  he  was  irretriev 
ably  lost.  Until  the  snow  lifted,  it  was  useless  to 
try  to  make  his  way  back  to  the  timber  .  .  . 
Heaven  only  knew  where  even  the  timber  was 
.  .  .  where  the  east  lay  he  had  no  notion  ...  it 
was  all  a  ghastly  tangle. 

"Why,  oh  why  didn't  I  bring  a  compass?" 
He  was  at  the  very  end  of  his  tether.  There 
seemed  nothing  to  do  but  wait  where  he  was  .  .  „ 
and  ultimately  freeze,  he  thought  bitterly.  No, 
he  would  not  give  up  so  easily  .  .  .  he'd  fight 
it  to  a  finish  ...  at  least  he  could  try  to  make  a 
fire.  There  must  be  enough  shelter  to  shield  a 
fire  somewhere  at  hand.  But  wood?  There  were 
plenty  of  bushes  out  upon  the  Flat,  he  remembered, 
and  occasional  fallen  trees,  too,  which  had  given 
up  the  hard  contest  with  the  elements.  During 
the  previous  hour  he  had  seen  bits  of  branches 
sticking  up  through  the  snow  and  once  had  even 
stumbled  over  a  log  hidden  under  the  white  fall. 
He  would  find  some  wood.  How  good  it  would  be 
to  get  really  warm  and  cheat  the  bitter  wind  for  a 
time! 

Directly  before  him,  sticking  from  the  top  of 
the  neighbor  ^  drift,  was  a  gnarled  bit  of  whit 
ened  branch.  That  would  make  capital  fuel,  he 
thought,  stepping  forward  to  grasp  it.  But  his 


256         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

outstretching  hand  stopped  in  mid-air,  a  sudden 
puzzling  memory  surging  up  in  his  brain  .  .  . 
that  weather-beaten  stick  looked  strangely  familiar 
.  .  .  when  had  he  seen  it  before? 

Subconsciously  he  wondered  if  this  was  an 
hallucination,  some  ugly  mental  symptom  of 
collapse  ...  a  sort  of  snow-bound  mirage  tricked 
into  being  by  his  weary  brain. 

Then  abruptly  his  mind  responded  and  he 
recollected  with  steel-cut  clarity  just  when  and 
where  he  had  last  seen  that  stick.  Even  Dad 
Trumble's  words  came  back  to  him:  "In  Noo 
York  I  reckon  they  label  the  bygod  streets,  don't 
they?" 

Feverishly  he  scraped  away  the  snow  at  the 
base  of  the  whitened  branch.  Sure  enough,  it  was 
wedged  between  the  topmost  rocks  of  the  monu 
ment  which  Dad  had  repaired  and  reinforced  with 
this  selfsame  guiding  branch  as  they  had  loitered 
there  in  August,  looking  down  upon  Lost  Lake. 

Kent  gave  a  yell  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
lungs.  And  then  another,  venting  his  reaction 
from  the  despair  of  the  preceding  moment. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


"ONLY  A  DRAW"- 


"WELL,"  said  Dad  glumly,  "I  reckon  we're 
euchered. " 

Instead  of  answering  the  girl  sat  silently  beside 
the  fire,  her  eyes  looking  far  along  the  trail  which 
Callier  had  followed,  seeing  little  of  the  surround 
ings,  whatever  mental  panoramas  may  have  un 
folded  before  them.  It  was  snowing  so  lightly 
now  that  one  could  see  from  the  tamarack  grove 
almost  to  the  far  end  of  the  Lake  where  the  trail 
mounted.  There  the  edge  of  the  storm  still  raging 
on  Wickiup  Flat  lapped  over  into  the  hollow  and 
its  ragged  flurries  blotted  out  the  figure  of  the 
departing  horseman. 

"Euchered  .  .  .  and  a  by  god  snake-in-the-grass 
done  it!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  the  girl  roused  herself.  She 
looked  abjectly  tired,  but  a  reviving  flush  kindled 
her  cheeks.  "It  looks  as  if  we've  been  cleaned. 
But  Dad,  it's  only  a  draw. " 

"Eh? "     The  old  man  was  at  sea. 

"  David  held  the  cards  the  first  game  .  .  .  when 
he  put  Failing's  special  edition  out  of  business  .  .  . 
17  257 


258         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

score  one  for  him.  Then  the  others  had  a  run  of 
luck  and  side-tracked  him  with  this  arresting  busi 
ness  .  .  .  score  one  for  them.  That's  a  draw, 
isn't  it?  And  now,  Dad,  we'll  play  the  rubber!" 

"An*  the  deck's  stacked  agin  us."  Despite  his 
grumbling  tone  Dad  felt  the  breath  of  renewed 
hope.  "Got  a  card  up  yer  sleeve,  Honey?" 

"An  ace,  Dad." 

With  that  she  bombarded  him  with  inquiries 
about  the  Ringo  Trail  across  the  mountains. 

"Will  it  be  storming  over  there?" 

"No.  What's  been  snow  here  probably  was 
rain  there  .  .  .  and  from  the  looks  of  it  even  the 
snow's  due  to  stop  soon.  Leastwise,  the  snow 
hasn't  reached  down  the  west  side  more  than  a 
few  miles  .  .  .  below  it's  probably  purty  as  a 
picture. " 

"  If  one  started  out  in  a  hurry,  how  long  would  it 
take  to  reach  the  railroad?" 

Then  Dad,  whose  mind  was  not  agile  in  fore 
sight,  for  the  first  time  gathered  what  was  coming. 

"I'll  be  teetotally  goswhizzled ! "  The  old  man 
considered  the  possibilities.  "Well,"  he  con 
tinued,  after  deliberation,  "it's  only  a  matter  of 
six  or  seven  miles  down  to  the  ranger  station  at 
Little  Meadow.  I  could  get  there  to-night  .  .  ." 

"But  Dad,  you  haven't  caught  the  idea.  You 
aren't  going  at  all!" 

The  girl  returned  his  bewildered  look  with  a 
confident  smile. 

"Pm  the  one  who  is  going,"   she  announced 


"Only  a  Draw"  259 

calmly.  "  What's  more,  by  the  time  our  friend 
Callier  reaches  Salem  there'll  be  dust  on  my  filing 
for  the  waters  of  Lost  Lake." 

"Lord,  child,  don't  talk  such  nonsense.  It's 
.  .  .  why,  it  just  ain't  right  for  you  to  be  thinking 
no  such  thing.  That's  no  trip  for  a  girl  to  make 
by  herself  at  any  time,  let  alone  starting  out  in  a 
snowstorm." 

"But  Dad,  you'll  admit  I  could  beat  him  to 
Salem." 

"Prob'ly  you'd  get  there  first  if  you  ever 
got  there  at  all.  But  it's  all  plumb  foolishness 
for  you  to  go  instead  of  me.  Why  shouldn't  I 
go  .  .  .?" 

"And  leave  me  to  find  my  way  back  to  Farewell? 
No  .  .  .  unless  I'm  mistaken,  it  will  be  a  harder 
trip  home  from  here  than  it  would  be  over  to 
Salem.  And  besides,  Callier  knows  you're  up  here 
and  he  doesn't  know  I  am.  If  you  are  in  Farewell 
to-morrow  they'll  never  dream  about  the  need  of 
hurrying  with  their  filing,  and  besides,  you  can  tell 
David  what's  happening." 

Finally  Dad  gave  up.  Crete  wras  adamant ;  she 
had  decided  to  go,  and  go  she  would.  But  an 
other  reason  for  the  old  man's  silence  was  that 
he,  too,  had  made  a  decision,  namely  to  accom 
pany  the  girl  on  the  over-mountain  trip,  whether 
she  wished  it  or  not. 

"It's  clearing,"  Dad  announced,  "an*  what's 
not  so  good,  it's  most  three  o'clock  already. 
We  .  .  .  that  is,  you'll  .  .  .  have  to  hustle  to 


260        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

reach  Little  Meadow  before  dark.  Glad  I  got 
my  Gov'ment  key — it'll  open  the  padlock  down  ter 
the  ranger  station." 

"Better  let  me  have  it, "  she  relieved  him  of  the 
key.  "Now,  Dad,  you  get  the  saddles  on  and  I'll 
run  down  and  post  my  filing  notice.  Then  will 
you  ride  along  to  the  end  of  the  canyon  and  tell  me 
about  how  I'm  to  find  the  way?" 

"Sure,"  he  growled,  adding  under  his  breath, 
"and  a  heap  farther,  too." 

When  she  came  back  from  the  Lake,  having 
posted  her  notice  on  a  tree  near  the  one  used  by 
Callier,  the  horses  were  ready.  Dad  soused  an 
armful  of  snow  over  the  fire  embers,  and  they 
mounted  and  turned  toward  the  west. 

For  an  instant  they  halted  by  the  border  of  the 
Lake,  the  horses  sniffing  doubtfully  at  the  unbroken 
snow  lying  over  this  new  way  they  were  being 
forced  to  follow,  instead  of  the  home  trail. 

Crete's  gaze  shifted  from  the  flat  white  expanse 
to  the  dark  rushing  waters  of  the  outlet  creek  .  .  . 
hers!  A  tingle  of  satisfaction  warmed  her  .  .  . 
she  had  come  to  help  David  win  the  right  to  use 
that  water,  and  now,  forsooth,  she  was  acquir 
ing  that  right  herself!  Already  she  felt  the  pride 
of  ownership  in  that  snow-bound  expanse. 

Then  he  turned  his  horse  into  the  knee-deep, 
virgin  snow.  Just  as  she  prepared  to  follow  a 
faint  sound  bore  down  to  her,  carried  from  afar 
by  the  lessening  wind.  She  stopped  in  her  tracks, 
listening  intently.  Then  it  came  again,  this  time 


"Only  a  Draw*'  261 

louder  and  more  prolonged.  First  she  thought 
it  an  echo  of  the  storm,  some  wailing  contortion 
of  the  wind.  Next  it  seemed  the  cry  of  an  ani 
mal,  probably  a  discomforted  coyote.  All  at  once 
her  straining  ears  caught  the  sound  more  fully. 
Unmistakably  it  was  the  call  of  a  human! 

"Dad!    Oh,  Dad!" 

She  was  poised  on  Fantan's  back,  her  hand  to 
her  ear,  straining  to  hear. 

"Sure  it  wasn't  jest  the  wind?''* 

"Positive  .  .  .  the  second  time  it  came  quite 
distinctly — from  over  there."  She  pointed  east 
ward,  where  the  gray  snow  shroud  still  hung  over 
the  edge  of  Wickiup  Flat. 

And  as  they  listened,  the  sound  of  a  voice  hal 
loing  came  unmistakably  to  their  ears.  Then  in  a 
sudden  lifting  of  the  snow  cloud  beyond  the  eastern 
limits  of  the  Lake,  where  the  home  rail  mounted  to 
the  level  of  the  Flat,  they  saw  a  dark  object.  It 
moved,  came  nearer,  then  stopped,  and  the  halloo 
echoed  again. 

Madly  they  shouted  and  waved  their  arms.  The 
figure  seemed  to  see  them ;  he  lifted  his  arms  as  if 
to  wave,  and  then  all  at  once  sank  down  in  the 
snow. 

Crete  was  there  first.  In  an  instant  she  was  out 
of  the  saddle  and  Fantan  stood,  with  the  reins 
on  the  snow  by  his  forefeet,  curiously  watching  his 
mistress.  Dad,  too,  observed,  and  as  he  saw  the 
unreserved  abandon  of  the  girl,  usually  so  coolly 
self-possessed,  the  sight  of  her  bending  over  the 


262         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

prostrate  figure  and  lifting  David  Kent's  head  in 
her  arm  impressed  him  far  more  than  did  David's 
plight  or  the  mystery  of  his  presence. 

"Jumpin'  jeminy!"  he  ejaculated  to  himself. 
"You  never  can  tell/' 

Having  voiced  that  unanswerable  axiom  he 
pretended  to  busy  himself  securing  Fantan,  who 
really  did  not  need  to  be  secured  at  all,  as  he  had 
quite  enough  manners  to  stay  just  where  he  was, 
after  the  way  of  all  good  western  horses.  After  a 
discreet  interval  Dad  drew  near. 

Crete  was  sitting  in  the  snow,  still  with  David's 
head  upon  her  lap,  rubbing  his  hands  briskly,  and 
oblivious  of  everything  but  the  tinge  of  color 
creeping  back  into  his  cheeks. 

"Fainted?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  exhaustion,  I  suppose.  His  pulse  is 
picking  up  now." 

"  It'll  pick  up  faster  when  he  opens  his  eyes, "  he 
said,  half -aloud. 

"Ssh!"  she  cautioned,  "he's  coming  to." 

But  despite  the  admonition  Dad  chuckled 
outright . 

Then  the  eyes  in  the  pale  face  flickered  and 
opened.  Wonderingly  they  looked  up  into  the 
blue  eyes  just  above  them. 

"  Crete ! "  The  girl's  name  came  instantly  to  his 
lips,  which  smiled  wanly. 

The  fire  beneath  the  tamaracks  was  rekindled 
and  under  the  invigorating  influence  of  hot  tea, 
bread,  and  jerky  Kent's  spirits  rose  rapidly. 


"Only  a  Draw"  263 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  they  plied  him  with 
questions. 

"  Callier  told  Dad  you  were  arrested.  Now  you 
tell  us  just  how  much  he  lied.  What  were  you  doing 
trapsing  around  afoot  .  .  .  where's  your  horse?" 

"To  be  exact,  Mr.  Interlocutor,"  he  replied  to 
Crete's  questions,  "  Callier  didn't  lie  at  all  .  .  . 
there's  an  exception  to  every  rule.  I  was  arrested 
.  .  .  only  I  didn't  stay  arrested!" 

Then  he  told  the  whole  story.  When  he  re 
counted  the  incident  of  the  dynamite  and  his 
sudden  mental  affliction  his  hearers  laughed  up 
roariously. 

"  Goshalmighty !  I'd  have  liked  to  see  Jeb  fade 
away,"  Dad  guffawed.  "An*  say,  won't  it  be  a 
bird  of  a  yarn  he'll  tell  to  Callier!  Jes  imagine 
the  trimmin's  he'll  put  on  it.  Wonder  if  they'll 
carve  a  nice  neat  epigraph  on  th'  tree  afore  they 
leave  the  remains  and  take  the  sad  news  back  to 
Farewell." 

While  the  old  man  was  considering  the  manifold 
possibilities  of  the  situation  Crete's  thoughts 
were  busy  with  more  practical  problems.  What 
next?  Her  eyes  encountered  the  saddle-bags, 
which  Kent  had  contrived  to  keep  with  him 
throughout  his  adventursome  day. 

"What  is  the  dynamite  for?" 

"Oh,  that's  a  plan  I  worked  out  when  I  was  up 
here  before." 

"Then  you  didn't  bring  it  just  to  make  a  grave 
for  yourself?" 


264        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Not  primarily.  But  it  did  come  in  handy  for 
that  .  .  .  and  the  thorough  way  the  job  was  done 
must  have  impressed  friend  Jeb  when  he  came  back 
to  pick  up  the  pieces/*  explained  Kent,  laugh 
ing  again.  "But  I've  got  an  even  better  use  for 
the  second  stick,  in  that  bag  there.  I'm  going  to 
start  the  water  of  Lost  Lake  flowing  in  the  right 
direction  .  .  .  which  is  east  instead  of  west." 

"Remember  what  you  said  about  miracles  .  .  . 
they're  way  out  of  date,"  she  chided. 

' '  This  one  will  come  off  O.  K.  With  just  a  bit  of 
a  jolt  in  the  ribs  the  old  Chief  will  put  it  over  for 


me." 


Then  he  pointed  to  the  great  rock  slide  which 
veritably  overhung  the  canyon  leading  westerly. 
With  the  snow  piled  up  upon  it,  it  seemed  more 
than  ever  poised  ready  to  crash  down  into  the  little 
valley  at  its  base. 

"Don't  you  see  what  a  shot  of  dynamite  would 
do  up  there?" 

It  was  evident  enough  that  a  charge,  well 
placed,  would  disrupt  the  entire  lower  section  of 
the  slide  from  its  perilous  angle  of  rest.  Crete 
nodded.  "I  see  .  .  .  it  would  choke  the  cany  on." 

"And  much  more,"  Kent  added.  "Enough 
rock  to  fill  the  Panama  Canal  will  slide  right  down 
just  below  the  foot  of  the  Lake  smothering  the  out 
let,  unless  my  calculations  are  away  off.  When 
that  end  of  the  Lake  is  dammed  of  course  the  water 
will  back  up  until  it  finds  another  outlet.  And 
that's  easy  .  .  .  it'll  only  take  a  couple  of  feet 


"Only  a  Draw"  265 

rise  before  it  spills  over  into  the  old  river  bed 
where  it  used  to  go  before  this  underground  outlet 
formed." 

Without  a  reasonable  doubt,  it  seemed  to  both 
of  them,  the  plan  would  work. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike  let's  get  a  move  on, "  Dad 
terminated  the  discussion.  "  We'll  have  to  hurry 
to  do  this  little  engineering  stunt  of  Dave's  afore 
it  gets  dark.  Anyway,  she's  mostly  stopped 
snowing  out  on  the  Flat  and  it  won't  be  hard  to 
get  home. " 

The  plan  was  to  block  the  Lake's  outlet,  after 
which  they  would  hurry  back  to  Farewell  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Crete,  however,  would  slip 
into  town  alone,  and  as  her  presence  on  the  trip 
to  the  Lake  was  unknown,  she  would  be  able  to  go 
on  down  to  Salem,  at  worst  together  with  Callier 
and  at  best  perhaps  ahead  of  him.  Kent  was  to 
surrender  himself  immediately.  Once  Callier  had 
him  in  custody,  they  agreed,  he  might  delay  the 
trip  to  Salem  realizing  that  Kent  could  not  get 
there  first.  And  as  a  trump  card,  both  Kent  and 
Crete  posted  separate  filing  notices,  not  at  the  west 
outlet  of  the  Lake,  but  at  the  east  end  beside  the 
dry  streambed.  In  each  notice,  and  the  copies 
of  it,  they  specified  clearly  that  they  were  filing 
on  the  outlet  water  of  Lost  Lake  which  flows 
east.  Callier's  posting,  on  the  tree  beside  the 
existing  outlet,  was,  of  course,  for  water  flowing 
"in  a  westerly  direction." 

"If  it  comes  to  a  showdown  at  Salem,"  said 


266         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Kent  to  Crete,  "and  you  and  Callier  try  to  file  at 
the  same  time,  they'll  have  to  accept  both  filings 
pending  an  investigation  to  find  out  how  this  bally 
water  really  does  flow  .  .  .  and  when  the  engi 
neers  come  up  here  next  spring,  Failing  and  his 
man  Friday  will  throw  a  fit  on  the  grass  when  they 
discover  what's  happened." 

"An'  I"  ...  added  Dad  with  devout  pro 
fanity  .  .  .  ''dam well  'd  like  to  be  in  these  parts 
when  the  glad  news  soaks  in  on  'em  .  .  .  I'd  enjoy 
that  'bout  as  much  as  hearing  Jeb  tell  about 
Dave's  sewercide. " 

Draping  his  saddle-bags  over  his  shoulder,  Kent 
started  along  the  westerly  trail  leading  from  the 
Lake's  outlet  down  the  canyon  just  below  the  over 
hanging  rock  slide.  He  meant  to  work  around  to 
the  west  side  of  the  slide  and  then  climb  up  it  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  to  a  point  where  a  wart 
of  giant  bowlders  projected  out  from  the  steep 
slope.  A  shot  beneath  them  would  start  a  general 
upheaval. 

While  the  amateur  dynamiter  made  the  detour 
and  worked  his  way  up  the  difficult  slope,  crawl 
ing  and  slipping  over  the  snow-covered  rocks,  Crete 
and  Dad,  with  the  horses,  waited  at  the  lakeside 
where  the  dark  waters  of  the  outlet  stream  gurgled. 
Their  man-made  avalanche,  they  believed,  would 
bury  that  stream  beneath  countless  tons  of  rock, 
shale,  and  earth. 

The  two  watchers  saw  Kent  work  around  the 
sides  of  great  rocks  which  he  could  not  clamber 


"Only  a  Draw"  267 

over.  Now  and  then  he  slipped,  in  crossing  steep- 
angled  slopes,  or  sank  suddenly  when  what  seemed 
a  solid  surface  proved  soft  snow  drifted  in  between 
bowlders.  But  little  by  little  he  progressed  toward 
the  vantage  point,  always  nursing  his  precious 
saddle-bags. 

Suddenly  for  the  second  time  that  day,  there 
came  to  their  ears  a  distant  cry. 

"Quick,  Dad  .  .  .     see  who  it  is. " 

In  an  instant  Trumble  was  back  at  her  side. 

"It's  Callier  and  Jeb.  They're  coming  this 
way." 

The  girl  thought  fast.  Probably  they  had 
learned  the  truth  about  Kent's  dynamite  fake, 
and  certainly  if  they  found  him,  he  would  be  re- 
arrested.  And  if  she  were  discovered  too,  it  would 
ruin  any  chance  she  might  have  of  beating  them 
to  Salem  for  the  filing. 

"Dad  .  .  .  you  go  back  to  them  .  .  .  keep 
them  from  coming  this  way  if  you  can  .  .  .  try  to 
get  rid  of  them  ...  I'm  going  to  dodge  down 
the  canyon  and  warn  David. " 

Not  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  urged  Fantan 
through  the  snow  where  Kent's  foot  tracks 
showed. 

Dad  swung  his  horse  easterly,  and  trotted  out 
along  the  Lake  to  meet  the  newcomers. 

Jeb  could  scarcely  wait  to  reach  him,  calling 
out  when  a  hundred  yards  away,  "Seen  Kent?" 

"Eh?  What's  that?"  Dad  wanted  to  get  in 
formation,  not  to  give  it.  To  the  question,  repeated 


268         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

by  Jeb  and  Callier  in  unison,  the  old  man  shook 
his  head. 

11  Hardly.  How  could  I  see  him  when  you  folks 
got  him  arrested?" 

Callier  looked  at  Jeb  and  the  deputy  looked 
back  at  him.  The  features  of  both  were  troubled, 
and  their  eyes  wandered  furtively. 

" What's  wrong,  gents  ...  if  I  might  ask? 
You-all  seem  consid'ble  discombobbled,  so  ter 
speak." 

Callier  nodded  to  the  deputy,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"You  tell  it."  And  Jeb  licked  his  lips. 

"That  Kent"  ...  he  began,  shakingly  .  .  . 
"  he's  gone  and  killed  himself. " 

"My  God!"  The  horror  of  the  tragedy  was 
echoed  copiously  in  the  old  man's  exclamation. 
"Killed?  .  .  .  Man,  you  don't  mean  to  say  as 
David  Kent  .  .  .  my  good  friend  Dave  .  .  .  has 
killed  himself?" 

Then  a  swift  glint  of  suspicion  seemed  to  pene 
trate  the  brain  of  this  good  friend  of  David  Kent. 
With  a  cold,  keen  glance  frightfully  unpleasant 
to  Jeb,  he  regarded  the  deputy. 

"You  say  as  how  he  killed  himself?11 

There  was  no  doubting  the  implication  of  that 
emphasis.  Then  Callier  came  to  the  rescue  of  the 
floundering  Jeb. 

"That's  just  it,  Trumble.  Watterson  was  look 
ing  after  the  young  fellow  back  there  on  the  far 
edge  of  the  Flat,  under  a  tree  out  of  the  snow, 
where  I  left  'em  to  come  up  here.  ..." 


"Only  a  Draw"  269 

" Ah!  Then  he  warn't  arrested  at  Farewell? 
...  as  you  told  me."  There  was  an  accusing 
tone  to  the  old  man's  words. 

"No  .  .  .  I  stretched  it  a  bit  there.  ..." 

"Urn  .  .  .  stretched  it,  eh?  Well,  go  on  .  .  . 
let 's  hear  it  all." 

Then  Callier  had  Jeb  disclose  the  details  of  the 
tragedy,  which  he  did  in  faithful  detail. 

"So  he  went  plumb  crazy  and  fired  the  dyna 
mite?"  Dad  asked  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"He  did.  We've  been  back  and  there's  nothing 
but  a  hole  in  the  ground  where  we  sat  ...  even 
the  saddle's  blown  to  bits.  My  God!"  ...  the 
poor  man  put  his  hands  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  tragic  picture  .  .  .  "to  think  how  near  it 
come  to  ketching  me!" 

The  thought  of  that  narrow  escape  seemed  to 
unnerve  Dad,  too.  Tears  stood  in  his  eyes  .  .  . 
at  least,  they  were  wet  ...  as  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  deputy's  shoulder  and  said  in  a  shaking 
voice,  "Praise  be,  you  got  off,  anyway  .  .  .  An* 
Jeb,  man,  don't  take  it  so  to  heart." 

"Now,"  put  in  Callier,  none  too  steady  himself 
.  .  .  "we've  come  to  get  you  to  go  back  with  us 
.  .  .  sort  of  want  you  to  look  it  all  over  .  .  .  the 
place  where  it  happened,  you  know  ...  so 
as  .  .  ." 

"Yeh,  I  see.  Want  me  for  a  witness  .  .  .  sort 
of  to  explain  matters  .  .  .  corrobber  you  two, 
so  ter  speak." 

"Jusit."     Jeb,  jabbing  at  his  eyes    with    the 


270         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

back  of  his  hand,  seemed  relieved.  "  There  might 
be  ...  well,  some  folks  might  sort  of  try  to  talk 
ugly " 

"They  might,"  Dad  agreed  dryly. 

"Look  here"  .  .  .  Callier's  manner  was  sud 
denly  suspicious  .  .  .  "What's  all  these?"  He 
pointed  to  the  horse's  tracks  along  the  trail  on 
which  Dad  had  just  ridden  up  to  them. 

"What,  them?  Why,  them's  horse  tracks," 
replied  Dad,  his  blue  eyes  widening  with  honest 
candor. 

"Hell,  yes  .  .  .  but  whose  horse?  There's  been 
more  than  one  critter  over  here. " 

"Yes  .  .  .  an'  no,  Mister  Collier.  There's  only 
been  one  horse,  so  far  as  I  know,  which  is  mine 
.  .  .  but  we've  been  up  and  down  here  a  couple  of 
times." 

"And  what  you  been  doing  waltzing  back  and 
forth?" 

"Wall,  as  I  reckon  you've  guessed  already 
there  ain't  no  harm  in  telling  you.  You  see,  I  was 
planning  to  work  out  a  leetle  power  development 
scheme  .  .  .  for  some  friends  of  mine  .  .  .  they 
jest  wrote  for  me  to  get  busy  .  .  . "  he  rambled  on, 
seeking  fresh  fictional  inspiration  as  he  progressed. 
"So  I  been  getting  the  measurements  they  wanted 
.  .  .  and  it's  kept  me  moving  about  considerable. 
See?"  The  guileless  eyes  regarded  the  sales 
manager  hopefully.  "And  now,  gents,  let's  be 
going  ...  if  we  don't  move  it'll  be  dark  afore  we 
get  to  where  poor  old  David  .  .  .  was  killed. " 


"Only  a  Draw"  271 

But  instead  of  acting  on  his  suggestion,  Callier 
was  off  his  horse  and  studying  the  tracks  in  the 
snow. 

"Not  so  fast,  my  friend,"  said  he.  "I'm  no 
tracker,  by  a  long  shot,  but  unless  you  shifted  the 
shoes  on  your  horse  there's  something  here  I  don't 
sabe."  He  had  discovered  that  two  sets  of  hoofs 
showed  going  westward,  but  only  one  returned. 
Just  at  that  place  the  footmarks  left  by  Kent  did 
not  show,  as  Fantan  had  followed  them  closely, 
scuffling  up  enough  snow  to  hide  any  trace  except 
to  a  more  experienced  eye  than  Callier's. 

The  sales  manager  mounted  his  horse,  then,  and 
started  back  along  the  tracks  toward  the  outlet. 
"I'll  take  a  look  for  myself,"  he  said.  And  as 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  Dad  followed,  swear 
ing  fluently  under  his  breath  and  wondering 
what  would  be  the  next  turn  of  this  eventful  day. 

They  came  to  where  Dad  and  Crete  had  waited, 
watching  the  dynamiter.  Casting  a  furtive  glance 
up  to  the  rock  slide,  the  old  man  was  relieved 
to  find  that  Kent  was  just  then  hidden.  But  if 
Callier  could  not  see  his  ex-prisoner,  and  as  yet 
entertained  no  suspicion  that  he  and  the  deputy 
had  been  duped,  he  could  see  the  horse  -tracks 
which  continued  along  the  canyon  westward. 
Dad's  eyes,  better  trained,  also  saw  a  footmark, 
clear  cut  in  the  snow,  where  Fantan's  hoofs  had 
failed  to  cover  Kent's  track. 

"Whoa!     Goldern  ye,  whoa!" 

Callier  turned,  attracted  by  the  sudden  uproar. 


272         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Unaccountably,  Dad's  horse,  until  now  a  beast  of 
model  deportment,  became  momentarily  unman 
ageable.  He  reared  and  swung  around,  the  rider 
tugging  at  the  reins  and  profanely  urging  him 
to  be  quiet.  Before  he  gained  control,  however, 
the  fractious  animal  had  stamped  the  clean  snow 
into  a  mass  of  hoofmarks.  It  happened,  too,  that 
the  tell-tale  footprint  was  completely  obliterated. 
Then  the  horse  quieted  down  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
commenced  his  antics,  wondering,  probably,  why 
his  usually  considerate  rider  had  raked  his  ribs  so 
strenuously  with  the  foot  furthest  from  Callier. 

The  sales  manager  glared  with  growing  sus 
picion.  There  was  something  wrong,  but  just 
what  he  didn't  know.  His  immediate  problem 
was  to  discover  that  other  horse  and  his  rider. 

"Who  is  it?"  Callier  was  angry,  and  showed 
it. 

"Search  me."  Dad's  manner  was  frankness 
itself.  "Suppose  it  might  be  a  ranger  ..." 

"Ranger,  hell!  You  can  come  or  stay,  just  as 
you  like,  but  I'm  going  to  find  out  who's  been 
with  you." 

Callier  turned  to  beckon  Jeb,  who  had  lagged 
behind  them;  and  was  just  in  time  to  see  the 
disheartened  deputy  gazing  open-mouthed,  up  the 
mountain.  Callier  followed  the  direction  of  Jeb's 
awe-struck  gaze.  And  suddenly  his  own  jaw  fell. 

A  matter  of  three  hundred  yards  up  the  steep 
slope,  the  dark  figure  of  a  man  was  outlined  against 
the  snow.  He  was  stooping,  at  the  base  of  a  mass 


"Only  a  Draw"  273 

of  rock  which  rose  from  the  slope  beside  him. 
Then  the  figure  straightened  up  ...  unmistak 
ably  it  was  Kent. 

"Mother  of  God!"   shrieked  Jeb. 

Callier  was  not  so  readily  impressed  by  things 
supernatural.  It  was  Kent  alive,  and  not  Kent's 
ghost  which  he  saw  and  wanted. 

"  There'll  be  no  slips  this  time  .  .  .  and  no 
damfool  suiciding,"  growled  the  sales  manager, 
drawing  his  revolver. 

18 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

NATURE  TAKES  A  HAND 

As  he  arranged  the  dynamite,  wedging  it  deep 
into  a  crevice  at  the  base  of  the  overhanging  mass, 
Kent  calculated  he  could  readily  cross  the  slide 
and  be  out  of  danger  in  the  interval  between  firing 
the  fuse  and  the  actual  explosion. 

"David,  ...  Oh,  David!"  Crete's  voice  car 
ried  up  to  him.  Turning  he  saw  the  girl,  who  had 
scrambled  up  the  slide. 

"Quick!"  she  called,  "They're  after  you." 

"Who?" 

He  guessed  well  enough. 

"Hurry!  Start  the  slide!"  She  was  nearer 
now,  panting  with  exertion. 

"But  how  ..." 

"  Listen  to  me. "  Her  tone,  breathless  as  it  was, 
forbade  argument.  "Fire  the  dynamite  and  come 
down  this  way.  ..." 

"But  the  slide  ...  we  can't  get  back"  .  .  . 
he  expostulated. 

"We're  not  going  back.  .  .  .  There  they  come 
now. " 

Kent,  looking  down  toward  the  Lake,  saw  the 

274 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  275 

three  riders  at  the  foot  of  the  eastern  edge  of  the 
slide.  As  he  spied  them  he  himself  was  seen  by 
the  deputy  and  Callier. 

Just  as  the  latter  raised  his  gun  the  young 
man  ducked  behind  the  rocks.  The  next  instant 
the  fuse  was  sputtering  industriously,  and  Kent 
bounded  off  across  the  snow-covered  slide  to  the 
west,  with  Crete  racing  before  him. 

The  girl  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  slope  when 
the  explosion  came.  Kent  fared  less  well.  A 
mighty  gust  of  gravel  and  splintered  rock  shot  into 
the  air,  spattering  down  all  around  him  as  he  sped 
for  safety.  Just  as  he  neared  the  foot  of  the  final 
slope,  a  fragment  of  stone  struck  his  head  and  he 
wilted  in  his  tracks. 

Crete  saw  him  plunge  into  the  snow  where  he 
lay  very  still.  And  she  saw,  too,  on  the  slope 
above  him,  a  portentious  trembling.  The  main 
slide,  started  by  the  dynamite-loosened  bowlders,  in 
its  initial  rush  had  shaken  and  dislodged  the  masses 
to  the  east  and  west  of  it,  and  already  the  even 
white  slope  of  snow  was  pitted  by  rolling  stones 
and  soiled  where  overhangs  of  shale  and  debris 
were  shaking  loose.  The  rumbling  of  the  coming 
avalanche  was  in  the  air.  And  in  the  very  path  of 
the  gathering  danger  lay  the  prostrate  man. 

Oblivious  of  the  stones  which  already  were 
hurtling  down  from  the  heights,  Crete  ran  back. 
She  scrambled  up  to  where  he  lay,  nearly  at  the 
base  of  the  slope,  his  hair  and  the  snow  beneath  it 
darkening  with  blood;  and  grasping  his  shoulders 


276        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

dragged  him  to  the  level.  The  slope  was  steep 
and  his  weight  slipped  readily  through  the  snow. 
But  once  at  the  bottom,  the  difficulty  of  the  girl's 
task  doubled.  First  she  tried  to  carry  the  body, 
but  she  lacked  strength  to  get  the  weight  upon 
her  back,  try  as  she  would. 

In  desperation,  she  commenced  dragging  him 
through  the  snow.  It  was  a  bitterly  hard  task,  but 
little  by  little  she  contrived  to  move  the  burden 
westward  toward  Fantan.  Twenty  yards  she 
dragged  him,  and  they  were  almost  out  of  danger. 
It  was  heartbreakingly  slow.  Her  breath  came 
short  from  hot,  hurting  lungs,  and  perspiration 
dimmed  her  eyes.  Struggling  for  fresh  strength 
she  looked  up,  and  her  face  went  as  white  as  the 
face  of  Kent. 

The  slide  had  started.  The  upper  portion  of  the 
talus  slope  quivered,  poising  in  a  last  undulating 
shiver.  The  next  instant,  shrouded  by  a  smoky 
cloud  of  dust  and  snow,  the  portion  of  the  slope 
above  thundered  down  toward  them.  The  ava 
lanche,  Crete  saw,  reached  to  the  very  western  edge 
of  the  talus. 

With  a  cry  of  fear — fear  not  for  herself  but  for 
the  unconscious  man — she  resumed  her  task,  her 
arms  twined  beneath  Kent's  shoulders.  Stum 
bling,  panting,  half -fainting  from  exhaustion,  she 
fought  on  with  every  atom  of  courage  within  her. 

Just  as  Crete  cleared  the  danger  slope,  the 
avalanche  of  rock  and  debris  hurtled  down,  all 
frothy  with  dirty  snow,  engulfing  the  trail  behind. 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  277 

The  dust  of  the  great  slide  swept  over  them, 
and  the  cold  breath  of  the  air  thrust  asunder  by 
the  rushing  mass  chilled  the  girl's  hot  cheeks  and 
fanned  the  clotted  hair  of  the  still  man  at  her  feet. 
It  seemed  the  very  breath  of  death — of  death 
doubly  cheated. 

"Thank  God!  Oh,  thank  God!"  cried  out 
Crete  Colton,  sinking  down  beside  the  man  she 
had  saved. 

Shortly  the  exhaustion  of  her  overwhelming 
efforts  wore  off.  And  at  once,  as  she  regained 
her  faculties  she  thought  not  of  herself  but  of 
the  injured  man. 

Taking  off  her  heavy  coat,  the  girl  laid  it  on  the 
ground  beneath  David  while  she  examined  the 
wound  in  his  head.  It  had  an  ugly  look — a  long 
gash  with  bloody  gaping  lips — but  it  required  no 
surgeon  to  see  that  it  probably  was  at  worst  a 
deep  scalp  wound,  accompanied,  no  doubt,  by 
concussion. 

Crete  first  opened  her  blouse  and  tore,  with  one 
whole-souled  pull,  the  front  portion  out  of  the  soft 
muslin  chemise  beneath,  and  with  strips  of  this 
contrived  a  crude  bandage.  But  the  wound  had 
bled  profusely  and  before  bandaging  it  was  neces 
sary  to  clear  away  the  clotted  mass  of  curly  hair. 
There  was  no  water,  but  she  remembered  the  knife 
carried  in  the  pocket  of  her  divided  skirt. 

"Going  to  amputate?" 

The  words,  whispered  weakly,  startled  her  al 
most  into  dropping  the  knife  she  was  in  the  act  of 


278        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

using.  Twice  that  day  David's  eyes  had  opened 
upon  this  same  fair-haired  ministering  angel 
bending  over  him.  Only  this  time  her  face  was 
averted  at  its  task,  and  he  had  had  opportunity 
to  gather  his  senses  and  consider,  in  a  dazed  way, 
what  had  happened.  Closing  his  eyes,  after  that 
first  rift  of  recollection,  a  strange  feeling  of  peaceful 
satisfaction  came  over  him. 

Then,  looking  again,  he  saw  the  knife  and  spoke : 

"Going  to  amputate?" 

The  words,  and  the  spirit  of  them,  lifted  her 
burden  of  fear.  She  had  been  bravely  stoical 
while  she  worked,  but  the  silence  and  the  stillness 
of  the  man  wracked  her  heart  with  foreboding. 

"Yes  .  .  .  amputation's  the  only  thing!" 
There  was  almost  laughter  in  her  words;  the  life 
in  those  brown  eyes  somehow  brightened  the  whole 
world  wonderfully.  "Do  you  object  if  I  perform 
it  just  above  the  shoulders?" 

He  contrived  to  smile,  though  it  was  a  painful 
grimace. 

"Go  to  it!  My  head  hurts  devilishly  .  .  .  feels 
's  if  it  had  passed  through  a  rock  crusher  .  .  . 
hack  it  off  any  way  you  please." 

"No,  I  won't  do  that,  either.  To  tell  the 
truth"  .  .  .  the  words  trailed  off  into  a  w^hisper 
unheard  by  Kent  .  .  .  "I'm  afraid  I  rather  like 
it."  Then,  aloud:  "But  I  am  going  to  amputate 
some  hair  .  .  .  it's  the  only  way  to  clear  away 
the  muss  ...  I'm  afraid  it  will  hurt." 

With  that  she  picked  up  tufts  of  the  hair  near 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  279 

the  wound  and  sawed  them  off  with  the  knife, 
doing  the  best  she  could  to  make  short  work  of  the 
petty  torture,  while  Kent  gritted  his  teeth  and 
inwardly  prayed  for  a  return  of  unconsciousness. 
When  the  girl  wrapped  her  bandaging  over  the 
wound,  however,  she  found  the  material  too  light 
and  flimsy  to  stay  in  place,  and  to  cure  that 
she  ripped  a  two-inch  strip  from  her  khaki  skirt, 
with  this  stronger  cloth  binding  the  bandage 
securely  in  place. 

"It  looks  like  an  East  Indian  headdress,"  said 
Crete  surveying  her  work,  "but  at  least  it  will 
keep  your  brains  from  leaking  through. " 

"Ugh!  I  feel  flabby,  but  that's  fine  .  .  . 
everything's  fine  now,"  said  he,  trying  to  be 
optimistic,  but  with  his  head  swimming  in  circles. 

"Oh,  yes,  everything  is  fine!"  She  repeated 
dryly.  "Except  of  course  that  you've  just  es 
caped  being  killed  by  exactly  one  eighth  of  an 
inch  and  you're  about  as  useful  on  a  mountain 
trail  as  a  mummy!" 

"Well,  get  Dad  and  the  horse  and  pack  me  home. 
Or  turn  me  over  to  my  late  jailers  and  let  them 
accept  the  responsibility,"  he  suggested  weakly. 

"There  isn't  any  Dad  and  there  aren't  any 
jailers  .  .  .  not  on  this  side  of  the  divide,  David. 
Your  blessed  dynamite  has  fixed  things  so  they 
won't  be  getting  over  for  a  good  long  time  ...  or 
us  back.  You  and  I  and  Fantan  are  monarchs 
of  all  we  survey."  She  looked  around  then,  at 
the  debris  of  the  great  slide,  at  the  torn  mountain 


280        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

side,  and  the  white  expanse  to  the  west  of  them, 
hemmed  in  by  cliffs. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  said.  We're  babes  in  the  woods 
...  or  boobs  in  the  hills.  The  Ringo  Trail  has 
been  blown  to  smithereens.  Things  happened 
just  as  you  predicted  .  .  .  the  Chief  sloughed  off 
a  whole  shoulder  down  upon  what  used  to  be  the 
trail.  It's  absolutely  choked  up  ...  there's  no 
going  back  and  no  coming  over." 

They  were  silent  then  for  a  space.  She,  clear 
headed,  considered  what  was  best  to  do,  while  the 
thought  uppermost  in  Kent's  clouded  mind  was 
realization  that  now  at  last  all  his  Lost  Lake 
hopes  had  gone  glimmering. 

"Well,"  said  Crete,  finally,  "it'll  be  dusk  soon. 
We'd  better  be  going." 

"Where?"  The  query  came  weakly.  Kent 
cared  little,  just  then,  what  happened  to  him. 
His  head  hurt  abominably,  his  body  ached,  he  was 
sick  with  utter  weariness  and  this  last  discourage 
ment  had  all  but  broken  his  spirit. 

She  told  him  of  the  ranger  station  Dad  Trumble 
had  said  was  six  miles  distant,  and  urged  him  to 
renewed  fight.  Buoyed  up  by  the  courageous 
hopefulness  of  the  girl,  Kent  finally  mustered 
enough  strength  to  find  his  feet.  His  head  swam, 
and  one  arm  clung  to  Crete's  shoulder  while  the 
other  grasped  the  saddle,  Fantan  the  meanwhile 
evidencing  in  every  way  possible  his  equine  desire 
to  be  helpful. 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  281 

At  length  Kent  was  in  the  saddle,  where  he 
clung  giddily,  and  they  moved  off,  Crete  walking 
at  Fantan's  side,  her  arm  steadying  the  uncertain 
rider.  And  frequently,  during  the  long  journey 
down  the  trail,  first  through  snow,  then  beneath 
forests  made  doubly  dark  by  the  night,  there  was 
need  of  the  girl's  assistance.  Time  and  again, 
were  it  not  for  the  strong  arm,  Kent  would  have 
toppled  off.  Time  and  again,  were  it  not  for  her 
cheery  encouragement,  he  was  reacly  to  give  up, 
craving  nothing  better  than  to  lie  where  he  might 
fall,  and  thereby  alleviate  the  aching  of  head 
and  body  which  even  their  careful  gait  made  at 
times  intolerable.  But  Crete  would  not  listen  to 
pleas  for  delay.  She  knew  that  if  they  rested  once 
it  would  be  doubly  hard  to  go  on  again.  And 
above  all  she  feared  that  Kent  might  break  down 
at  any  minute,  and  tried  to  forestall  such  a  possi 
bility  by  keeping  on  the  move. 

While  she  aided  him,  scolded  him,  cajoled  him 
and,  at  times,  actually  supported  him,  the  girl 
trudged  along  beside  the  horse,  stumbling  through 
the  dark,  tripping  over  roots  and  bruising  her  feet 
on  unseen  rocks.  During  the  last  half  of  that 
unforgetable  journey  she  limped  more  than  walked, 
and  with  her  free  hand  hung  heavily  to  the  stirrup 
leather,  seeking  to  lift  some  of  the  burden  from  her 
poor  feet.  Indeed,  when  they  found  the  cabin, 
the  girl  was  in  little  better  shape  than  the  man. 
Her  physical  strength  about  gone,  she  was  sus 
tained  by  pure  nerve.  But  never  a  whimper 


282         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

escaped  her,  and  her  companion,  wrapt  in  his  own 
misery,  guessed  nothing  of  her  suffering  and  the 
exhaustion  against  which  she  fought  so  bravely. 

It  was  typical  of  western  mountain  ranger 
stations,  that  cabin.  One  small  square  room,  with 
log  walls  and  shake  roof,  was  the  beginning  and 
the  end  of  it,  except  for  the  overhung  roof  in  front, 
extending  in  a  sort  of  covered  porch  for  fifteen 
feet  and  providing  a  shelter  for  stove  wood,  saddles, 
and  the  like.  Surrounding  the  building,  which 
stood  in  a  patch  of  meadow  land,  was  a  neat  fence 
fashioned  from  lodge  pole  pine,  and  various  signs 
proclaimed  Uncle  Sam  the  owner  and  the  serious 
inadvisability  of  interfering  with  government 
property. 

Crete,  however,  had  the  Forestry  Department 
key  given  her  by  Dad  Trumble,  and  even  before 
helping  Kent  to  dismount  she  had  opened  the 
padlock  and  swung  the  door  wide. 

Aided  by  David's  flashlight  she  found  a  candle 
and  with  its  assistance  was  delighted  to  discover 
that  the  cabin  appeared  reasonably  well  stocked. 
A  roll  of  blankets  hung  from  a  beam,  and  the  bulk 
of  a  gunny  sack,  suspended  nearby  out  of  reach  of 
rats,  evidenced  that  at  least  some  food  was  on 
hand.  Beside  the  little  rusty  iron  stove  in  the 
corner  was  a  neat  pile  of  split  wood,  and  more, 
she  noted,  lay  outside  beneath  the  shelter  roof. 

"All  ready  to  set  up  housekeeping!"  she  cried 
to  David,  emerging  from  her  brief  inspection. 

"I'm  all  in."     That  was  all  he  could  say  as  he 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  283 

sank  into  a  chair  fashioned  from  a  packing  case^ 
And,  in  truth,  he  was.  His  last  reserve  of  strength 
had  ebbed  away,  and  he  sat  there  a  listless  wreck, 
his  head  buried  in  his  hands  and  his  body  drooping. 

Wasting  no  time  on  profitless  compassion,  the 
girl  cut  the  rope  holding  the  bedding  to  the  rafter, 
and  spread  two  of  the  four  blankets  upon  the 
boards  of  the  single  bunk. 

"  Now,  David ! "  She  divested  him  of  shoes  and 
mackinaw,  "Bed's  ready. " 

With  her  arm  about  him,  he  stumbled  to  his 
feet  and  half-laid  himself,  and  was  half-laid,  upon 
the  waiting  blankets. 

Twenty  minutes  later  two  pots  steamed  on  the 
stove.  She  propped  him  up  then,  and  poured  a 
taste  of  hot  coffee  into  him,  until,  revived,  he: 
gladly  swallowed  the  rest  for  himself. 

"Ah!"  he  sighed  sleepily,  "that's  the  best 
thing  of  the  day." 

"Which  isn't  saying  much,  David,  when  you 
think  what  a  day  it's  been.  And  now  we'll  try 
something  which  won't  be  so  pleasant." 

With  that  she  brought  the  pan  of  hot  water  to 
the  side  of  the  bunk,  and  some  strands  of  soft 
muslin  which  had  been  her  own  undergarments  a 
few  minutes  since.  As  gently  as  could  be,  but 
painfully  at  that,  the  amateur  nurse  cut  away  the 
first  bandages  and  with  a  soft  bit  of  rag  which  had 
been  boiled  she  bathed  the  scalp. 

Holding  the  candle  close  then,  she  had  her  first 
good  look  at  the  wound  for  now  that  the  hair  was- 


284        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

cut  away  and  the  blood  cleansed  it  was  possible  to 
see  its  exact  condition.  The  opening  was  perhaps 
three  inches  long,  over  the  right  ear.  It  com 
menced  as  a  narrow  cut  at  each  end,  widening  at 
the  middle  into  an  ugly  trough,  perhaps  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  deep  extending  down  to  the  bone.  The 
lips  of  flesh  folded  back  as  the  leaves  of  a  book, 
opened  in  the  middle,  turn  back  from  the  binding. 
Bleeding  had  nearly  stopped,  but  during  the  hours 
since  the  accident  the  wound  had  stretched 
open,  and  apparently  might  widen  farther  if  not 
checked. 

Crete's  choice  lay  in  simply  cleansing  the  wound 
and  waiting  for  help,  or  in  playing  surgeon  herself 
and  closing  it.  Revolving  the  matter  in  her  mind, 
she  realized  that  medical  assistance  might  be  days 
in  coming.  So,  tired  as  she  was,  she  decided  to  do 
what  seemed  to  her  the  safest  thing  then  and  there, 
if  she  could  find  something  with  which  to  work. 

In  ten  minutes  Crete  had  what  she  wanted. 
At  least,  she  had  promising  substitutes.  Provi 
dence  had  been  kindly  when  it  endowed  the  forest 
ranger  who  last  occupied  that  cabin  with  house 
wifely  habits.  For  her  search  revealed  a  couple  of 
needles  stuck  into  the  log  just  beside  the  cracked 
mirror,  and  among  the  relics  of  a  cigar  box  she 
unearthed  a  couple  of  casting  flies  fastened  to  a 
fine  gut  leader.  Crete  removed  the  flies,  slit  the 
top  loop  from  the  leader  and  ascertained  that  she 
could  thread  the  gut  through  the  eye  of  the  larger 
needle. 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  285 

Locating  another  candle  she  reinforced  the  single 
light,  propping  the  two,  each  in  the  mouth  of  a 
bottle,  just  above  Kent's  head.  That  was  the 
illumination  of  her  operating-room.  Then,  with 
much  water,  freshly  boiled,  she  cleaned  her  hands 
and  arms  scrupulously,  and  threaded  up  the 
needle  with  the  leader  gut,  after  first  holding 
the  needle  itself  in  the  fire  flame  to  disinfect  it. 
The  gut  she  passed  through  the  boiling  water. 

"It's  the  best  I  can  do. "  She  sighed  to  herself. 
"It  will  hurt,  David"  .  .  .  her  voice  was  steady 
enough  as  she  explained  her  intention  .  .  .  "but 
remember,  like  the  mother  spanking  the  little  boy  " 
.  .  .  she  choked  over  her  attempted  laugh  .  .  . 
"it  will  hurt  me  more  than  it  does  you." 

It  hurt,  truly  enough,  but  he  bore  it  bravely, 
gripping  the  side  of  the  bunk  with  his  fingers  and 
swearing  deeply  now  and  then  as  the  needle  pricked 
his  scalp  flesh  and  the  catgut  dragged  through  in 
its  wake.  It  hurt  her,  too — every  bit  of  it.  But 
she  neither  spoke  nor  faltered.  One,  two,  three, 
four  stitches  she  took,  forcing  the  needle  through 
the  protruding  edges,  pulling  the  gut  after  it  and 
drawing  the  sides  of  the  wound  together  as  firmly 
as  she  could.  And  as  she  worked  with  her  face 
hidden  above  his  head,  silent  tears  dropped  down 
upon  the  curly  brown  hair  and  even  upon  the  very 
wound  itself.  Perhaps  it  was  those  tears,  she 
thought  afterward,  which  disinfected  so  well  and 
left  no  ill  effects  from  the  operation. 

When  it  was  over  she  gave  her  patient  more  hot 


286         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

coffee,  which  was  all  he  wanted,  and  wrapped  him 
in  the  remaining  blankets.  The  last  candle  was 
gone  now,  and  she  groped  her  way  to  the  door, 
where  the  outer  darkness  showed  less  dark  than 
the  inner  jet.  Fan  tan,  browsing  in  the  grass, 
heard  her  and  whinnied  softly. 

"Good  night,  pony." 

She  found  the  saddle  blanket  and  with  it  turned 
to  the  cabin  again.  On  the  high  threshold  she 
paused,  motionless  for  a  moment.  From  the  di 
rection  of  the  bunk  came  the  sound  of  easy  breath 
ing,  the  even  respiration  of  comfortable  sleep. 

"Thank  God."  She  spoke  very  quietly,  her 
whole  soul  in  the  words.  Then  she  knelt  upon 
the  threshold  log  and  the  tears  which  flowed  down 
her  tired,  stained  face  were  tears  of  happiness, 
for  Crete  Colt  on,  the  schoolmistress  whose  ac 
quaintance  with  good  fortune  had  never  ripened 
into  intimacy,  somehow  found  a  joyful  satisfaction 
in  the  peril,  hardship,  and  sacrifice  of  this  adven 
turesome  day. 

The  tears  were  still  undried  when  she  lay  down 
upon  the  saddle  blanket,  stretched  on  the  floor 
opposite  the  bunk.  For  pillow  she  had  one  of  her 
own  saddle-bags,  and  for  covering,  her  mackinaw 
and  Kent's. 

When  David  awoke  and  slowly  became  entirely 
conscious,  the  first  dull  light  of  dawn  filtered 
through  the  open  door  and  single  window.  Look 
ing  about  he  recalled  the  events  of  the  preceding 
night,  some  of  them  seeming  ages  gone  by,  and 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  287 

others  incidents  scarcely  completed.  His  hand 
went  to  his  head,  and  he  felt  the  bandages,  just 
as  his  every  sense  could  feel  the  inner  soreness  of 
the  head  itself  and  the  bruised  aching  of  various 
portions  of  his  body. 

"She  actually  sewed  it  up — God  knows  how!" 
He  said  it  half -aloud.  And  lying  there  the  wonder 
of  the  girl's  courage  bore  in  upon  him,  hazily  like 
a  good  dream. 

Thinking  of  her  he  all  but  dozed  off  again,  until 
suddenly  the  thought  struck  home  that  something 
had  happened  to  her — that  she  had  left  him. 
That  waked  him,  clearheaded,  though  weaker 
than  he  knew. 

He  contrived  to  turn  on  his  side,  each  movement 
rousing  throbs  of  soreness  throughout  his  body  and 
pricks  of  pain  in  his  head,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
calling  aloud  for  Crete  when  his  eyes  saw  in  the 
semi-darkness  on  the  floor  a  darker  mass. 

She  lay  against  the  opposite  wall,  as  she  had 
slept  throughout  the  night.  Her  dusty  hair  had 
loosened  and  tumbled  over  the  saddle-bag  in 
towsled  profusion.  One  arm  was  extended  at 
length,  the  other  lying  across  her  breast,  its  hand 
clasping  in  place  the  mackinaw  covering.  He 
thought  he  could  see,  even  through  the  gloom, 
a  look  of  contentment  upon  her  features,  heavy  as 
they  were  with  sleep  and  exhaustion.  The  other 
coat,  his  own,  which  had  been  over  the  lower  por 
tion  of  her  body,  had  slipped  partially  aside. 

As  he  looked,  full  consciousness  of  his  surround- 


288         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

ings,  and  something  more,  surged  up  within  him. 
He  saw  the  girl  stretched  with  so  little  to  shield  her 
from  the  hardness  of  the  floor  and  the  crisp  chill 
of  the  night.  He  sensed  the  instinctive  effort  for 
protection  and  warmth  in  that  arm  across  her 
breast,  with  its  hand  clasping  the  mackinaw. 
From  that  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  two  blankets  so 
carefully  tucked  in  over  his  own  body,  while  his 
hands  discovered  two  more  were  beneath  him. 
And  she  had  done  that ! 

"You  damn  big  cad!"  he  growled  at  himself. 

He  was  wonderfully  ashamed  just  then — a  shame 
which  actually  made  him  quite  sick  and  dizzy. 

For  a  time  he  lay  cursing  himself  wholesouledly. 
After  a  bit  the  resolve  swept  over  him  to  reach 
out  and  take  the  girl's  hand — that  hand  resting 
upon  her  breast,  grasping  the  mackinaw — and  kiss 
it.  But  before  the  notion  took  shape  too  definitely 
in  his  hot  head,  he  saw  its  folly.  Yes,  he  wanted 
to,  truly  enough  .  .  .  wanted  to  crush  that  hand 
and  tell  its  owner  oh,  so  many  things ;  to  lay  all  his 
gratitude  at  her  feet  .  .  .  wanted  to  do  all  this, 
more,  it  seemed,  than  he  had  ever  desired  anything 
before. 

Loosening  one  of  the  blankets  from  around  him, 
he  contrived  to  get  from  the  bunk  and  lay  it  over 
the  sleeping  girl.  It  cost  a  supreme  physical 
effort  and  sent  him  back  in  a  spasm  of  dizziness. 
But  it  was  worth  the  price,  he  thought.  He  did 
it  with  a  queer  sense  of  sacredness  ...  he  felt 
supremely  decent. 


Nature  Takes  a  Hand  289 

Then  he  turned  to  the  wall,  and  before  sick-bed 
slumber  banished  the  pains  in  his  head  and  the 
aches  in  his  heart  David  Kent  rehearsed  a  number 
of  good  resolutions.    And  some  of  them  he  kept. 
19 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
AT  THE  RANGER'S  CABIN 

WHEN  David  again  opened  his  eyes  he  was 
alone,  although  the  changed  appearance  of  the 
surroundings  testified  someone's  early  morning 
industry. 

The  stove,  rubbed  into  an  approximation  of 
brightness,  radiated  a  cheerful  warmth.  A  pot  of 
coffee  simmered,  and  in  the  open  oven  was  visible 
the  brown  top  of  a  pan  of  biscuits.  The  floor  had 
been  swept  clean  and  a  gay  bunch  of  Indian  paint 
brush,  arranged  in  a  syrup  can,  decorated  the 
decrepit  table.  Even  the  cracked  mirror  was 
resplendent,  and  the  five-gallon  gasolene  tin, 
extemporized  into  a  bucket,  brimmed  with  clear 
water. 

As  the  injured  man  noted  these  housewifely 
reforms  their  author  entered.  Her  eyes  were 
merry  again,  and  her  face  glowed  with  color.  The 
dusty  hair,  so  abandoned  when  he  last  saw  it,  was 
now  disciplined  and  piled  in  place. 

' '  You  look  as  fresh  as  a  daisy. ' '  The  hackneyed 
greeting  seemed  appropriate. 

"Oh,  I  feel  fine,  thanks.  I've  just  tried  con- 
290 


At  the  Ranger's  Cabin  291 

elusions  with  a  little  creek  at  the  foot  of  the 
meadow. "  She  gave  a  mock  shiver. 

"Cold?" 

"Greenland's  tropical  in  comparison.  Perhaps 
you  don't  remember  everything  that  happened 
last  night,  but  it's  only  about  a  mile  on  the  back 
trail  to  snow.  It's  just  as  Dad  Trumble  predicted 
— snowing  up  there  and  rain  down  here.  Only 
some  of  the  snow  has  lingered  in  that  water!" 

It  was,  in  truth,  raining,  in  a  gray  persistent 
way  typical  of  the  western  slopes  of  the  Oregon 
Cascades.  Now  and  then  the  grayness  would 
gather  blacker  accompanying  a  brief  downpour 
and  then  relapse  into  intermittent  drizzling. 
Dampness  dripped  from  the  eaves  and  when 
occasional  lazy  breezes  swayed  the  nearby  trees 
the  swish  of  dank  foliage  and  spattering  of  dis 
lodged  water  broke  the  sodden  silence. 

"No,  I  don't  remember  much  about  it,"  he 
admitted,  adding  to  himself,  "but  there  are  some 
things  I'll  never  forget." 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  my  boarding  house? 
And  how  is  the  star  boarder  himself?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  it's  a  great  place!  Everything  about  it 
appeals  to  me,  from  the  landlady  to  that  coffee 
I  see  on  the  stove.  ..." 

"You've  got  the  order  mixed!"  she  corrected, 
laughingly.  "The  coffee's  by  far  the  more  impor 
tant.  It  was  a  godsend.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
we're  wonderfully  lucky  because  there's  about 
everything  needed  in  the  way  of  grub  here,  even 


292         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

down  to  baking  powder.  Witness"  .  .  .  she 
poked  the  pan  in  the  oven  out  into  full  view 
.  .  .  " they  look  edible,  don't  they?" 

"Lord,  yes!     I'm  feeling  better  already." 

"Well  enough  to  get  up?    How  is  the  head?" 

He  twisted  around  a  bit  before  answering, 
gingerly  testing  out  the  problem  at  first  hand. 
The  result  wasn't  altogether  satisfactory. 

"Taken  all  in  all  I'd  say  I  feel  like  the  end  of 
a  misspent  life  .  .  .  but  at  that  a  hundred  per 
cent,  better  than  I  did  last  night  .  .  .  thanks  to 
you.  And  say,"  he  hesitated,  " did  you  .  .  .  that 
is,  I  felt  like  an  awful  beast  .  .  .  after  all  you 
did  for  me  ...  it  ...  it  ..."  He  was  flounder 
ing,  but  apparently  the  girl  was  too  intent  upon 
getting  the  biscuits  out  of  the  pan  to  notice. 
"Well,  look  here,"  he  finally  worked  himself  up 
into  a  similation  of  self-righteous  anger,  "it  was 
positively  wrong  for  me  .  .  .  that  is,  for  you 
.  .  .  oh,  hang  it!  What  I'm  trying  to  say  is  I 
hope  you  didn't  catch  cold  ...  it  was  a  damn 
outrage  for  me  to  hog  all  the  blankets. " 

As  her  back  was  toward  him  he  could  not  see 
her  face,  which  was  just  as  well.  To  herself  she 
said,  "You  didn't  take  the  blankets,  bless  your 
heart."  But  at  the  same  time  she  was  thinking 
of  the  miracle  whereby  that  blanket  had  found  its 
way  from  his  shoulders  to  hers. 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  get  up?"  That  was  all 
she  said  aloud. 

He  thought  he  could. 


At  the  Ranger's  Cabin  293 

41  Well,  then,  you  try  it.  Here  are  water  and  a 
basin.  I'll  be  back  in  twelve  minutes  and  we'll 
have  breakfast. " 

With  that  she  slipped  on  her  mackinaw  and  went 
out  into  the  soft  drizzle.  And  in  the  appointed 
time  she  returned,  bringing  an  armful  of  spruce 
boughs. 

Kent,  sore  and  shaky  as  he  was,  disposed  of  a 
goodly  amount  of  cornmeal  mush,  coffee,  and 
biscuits,  and  would  have  eaten  more  if  Crete  had 
permitted. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  for  an  invalid  there's  no  end 
to  your  appetite,"  she  remarked. 

' '  Why  should  there  be  ?  I  haven't  had  a  thing  to 
eat,  except  a  couple  of  sandwiches,  for  thirty-six 
hours.  I'm  as  empty  as  a  vacuum  cleaner,  and 
it's  working  now  you've  turned  it  on!" 

She  noted  that  when  the  meal  was  over 
Kent  was  more  than  willing  to  get  back  to  the 
bunk.  He  tried  to  make  a  show  of  being  "all 
right"  and  taking  a  hand  in  the  slight  task  of 
cleaning  up  the  tin  dishes,  but  his  knees  weren't 
steady  beneath  him  and  his  head,  he  admitted 
regretfully,  began  to  spin. 

"What's  the  idea?" 

Crete  had  brought  in  another  armful  of  spruce 
boughs.  He  wondered  what  she  meant  to  do,  and 
asked.  Indeed,  he  himself  had  no  clear  notion 
what  should  be  done.  He  realized  simply  that 
for  the  time  being  he  was  down  and  out,  with 
neither  disposition  nor  ability  to  undertake  any- 


294         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

thing  beyond  the  confines  of  the  bunk.  And  in 
this  condition  he  felt  immeasurably  dependent 
upon  the  girl. 

"The  idea?"  she  repeated.  "Why,  I'm  going 
to  make  you  comfortable  .  .  .  unless  you  prefer 
bare  boards  to  a  nice  mattress  of  boughs?" 

"No  indeed.  But,  Crete  ..."  he  hesitated, 
"I  ...  that  is,  it  would  make  me  feel  better  if 
you'd  take  this  bunk  and  .  .  .  well,  fix  me  up 
somewhere  else  .  .  .  that  is,  if  we  have  to  stick 
around  here.  It's  ..." 

"Yes,  I  know  .  .  .  it's  embarrassing.  That's 
what  you  started  to  say."  She  laid  the  boughs 
down  and  looked  at  him  squarely,  her  level  blue 
eyes  frank  and  serious.  "And  from  my  stand 
point,  David,  it  could  be  even  worse  than  that  .  .  . 
no,  don't  interrupt!  We've  done  the  right  thing 
and  I've  no  regrets.  But  you  know,  and  I  know, 
that  it  might  hurt  both  of  us,  hurt  us  in  ways  that 
can't  be  cured  .  .  .  if  we  stay  up  here  for  a  day  or 
a  night  longer  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  Oh 
yes,  that's  true,  and  there's  no  harm  in  being  sensi 
ble  about  it.  That's  why  I'm  going. " 

"Going?" 

She  had  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  home 
made  "  arm  chair, "  facing  him  where  he  lay  on  the 
bunk.  It  was  all  thought  out  in  her  mind,  and  she 
was  ready  to  discuss  her  conclusions  frankly. 

"Yes,  I'm  going.     It's  the  best  thing  to  do." 

"How  far  is  it?"  He  sighed.  Those  blankets 
seemed  wonderfully  comfortable  and  the  thought  of 


At  the  Ranger's  Cabin  295 

dragging  himself  along  the  trail,  or  being  dragged 
on  Fantan,  was  anything  but  inviting.  "Do  you 
think  I  can  make  it?" 

"It's  forty  miles  or  so  to  the  railroad,  according 
to  Dad.  As  for  your  second  question,  I  don't 
think  you  can  make  it  ...  and  what's  more, 
you're  not  going  to  try!" 

She  smiled  broadly  at  his  blank  expression. 

"You  didn't  understand.  I'm  going  to  leave 
you  here.  I  hate  to  do  it  ...  more  than  you 
know."  Her  voice  dropped.  "But  David,  it's 
the  only  way.  You  couldn't  possibly  make  the 
journey.  With  one  of  us  walking  it  would  take 
two  days,  and  so  far  as  I  know  there  is  no  stopping 
place  on  the  trail.  However,  if  I  ride  I  can  push 
through  quickly  and  then  I'll  send  help  back. 
That  wound  would  simply  open  up  and  all  sorts 
of  complications  might  set  in.  But  if  you  stay 
here  and  rest  everything  will  come  out  finely 
and  .  .  ." 

"But  couldn't  you  stay?"  It  was  a  small 
boy's  plaint.  After  all,  sick  men  and  children 
are  pretty  much  alike. 

The  blue  eyes  never  wavered  from  his,  but  twice 
as  she  started  to  speak  she  seemingly  changed 
her  mind,  and  remained  silent. 

"I've  told  you,  David";  finally  she  said,  very 
quietly,  "I'd  do  anything  .  .  .  anything  in  the 
world"  .  .  .  she  choked  a  little  there,  and  for  the 
first  time  the  blue  eyes  wavered  .  .  .  "for  you. 
And  David"  .  .  .  she  was  explaining  like  a 


296         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

mother  now  .  .  .  "that  wouldn't  be  best.  I've 
.  .  .  why,  I've  been  trying  to  think  about  it  from 
your  standpoint,  David.  Don't  you  see?  You 
and  I  are  up  here  at  this  cabin  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
oh,  the  only  thing  I  can  do  is  to  go  for  help  as  soon 
as  possible.  I  don't  mind  for  myself"  .  .  .  the 
curious  certainty  of  the  words  impressed  her  hearer 
.  .  .  "but  she  would."  She  stopped  then,  tears 
very  nearly  in  her  eyes. 

A  growing  wonderment  filled  him.  Added  to 
what  he  had  already  sensed  himself,  especially 
in  that  period  of  wakefulness  at  dawn,  it  sent  a 
curious  thrill  throughout  him,  partly  of  bitter  self- 
arraignment  and  partly  the  happiness  of  a  new 
resolve.  David  Kent's  mind  and  heart  suddenly 
were  wide  awake. 

"Valentine?" 

Crete  nodded. 

"I  don't  see  ...  what  you  mean,"  he  lied. 
He  did  see,  and  he  knew  he  saw.  But  on  some 
inexplicable  impulse  he  sought  to  drag  it  all  out 
in  torturing  words.  And  Crete  accepted  the  chal 
lenge,  giving  better  than  she  took. 

"You  know  your  fiance'e  wouldn't  like  it  ... 
she'd  never  forgive  you.  She's  angry  enough 
already  over  your  interference  with  her  father's 
affairs,  without  risking  anything  more. " 

"But,  Crete,"  he  expostulated,  "my  Lost  Lake 
plan  has  gone  flooey  .  .  .  there's  no  more  chance 
to  make  trouble  for  Father  Pennoyer,  worse  luck ! 
I  haven't  a  thing  to  show  for  my  pains  but  this 


At  the  Ranger's  Cabin  297 

blame  cut,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I'd  be 
neatly  buried  right  now  up  there  under  the  slide 
...  a  just  reward,  the  Old  Man  would  say,  for 
messing  in  his  affairs.  And  besides,  you're  talking 
like  a  prospectus  of  big  business.  It's  unbecoming 
a  lady  and  a  settler." 

The  placid  blue  of  Crete's  eyes  clouded.  After 
all,  she  was  only  a  girl  who  had  been  doing  a  hero's 
work.  This  bantering  discussion  of  things  which 
cut  to  her  very  heart  was  too  much. 

"Why,  Little  Girl,"  he  swung  out  of  the  bunk 
as  best  he  could,  laying  a  hand  on  her  shaking 
shoulder,  "please,  please  don't.  You've  saved 
my  life  and  you've  nursed  me  like  a  sister  and  now 
you're  ..." 

"I  only  want  you  to  get  what  you  want,"  she 
sobbed. 

"And  God  knows  I  mean  to  get  it."  He  was 
beside  her  now,  his  arm  around  her.  Her  head 
was  bent  low,  and  he  kissed  the  dusty  hair  so 
softly  she  did  not  know  it. 

"Crete  dear,"  he  whispered,  "don't  you  know 
what  I  want?" 

As  she  felt  him,  then,  beside  her,  his  arm  strongly 
holding  her  she  cried  softly  and  did  not  lift  her 
head.  And  her  heart  ached  more  than  ever  before. 

"Crete,"  he  said  again,  gently  urging  her  to 
look  up  at  him,  "what  I  want  is  you.  I  want  you, 
dear,  just  you,  more  than  all  the  world. " 

But  still  she  was  silent.  Suddenly  a  new 
thought  dawned  upon  him. 


298         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Please,  Crete,  listen."  He  went  back  to  the 
bunk  then,  sinking  down  upon  it,  too  weak  to 
stand.  "I'm  a  rotter  .  .  .  God  knows  what  you 
must  think  of  me!  Only  .  .  .  well,  I'm  going  to 
show  you  I'm  all  right.  It's  .  .  .  oh,  I  suppose  it 
seems  unspeakable  to  you  to  have  a  man  you 
think  is  engaged  turning  right  around  and  ask 
ing  you  to  marry  him.  It  looks  rotten  ...  I'm 
ashamed  .  .  .  ashamed  of  the  looks  of  it,  that  is 
.  .  .  the  truth  is  all  right  and  there's  nothing  that 
shouldn't  be." 

"You  are  engaged,  aren't  you?"  The  question 
came  very  softly. 

"No,  I'm  not."  Kent's  own  assurance  sur 
prised  him.  Not  long  ago  he  had  considered,  or, 
at  worst,  hoped  himself  engaged;  latterly  he  had 
feared  he  was.  "Val  .  .  .  Miss  Pennoyer  never 
promised  me  and  ..." 

"But  you  promised  her  and  you've  been  in  love 
with  her.  "  The  girl's  words  were  not  reproachful. 
It  was  a  level  statement  of  fact.  Her  good  self- 
possession  was  regained. 

"Look  here,  Crete,"  he  tried  to  laugh.  "I'll 
tell  you  the  whole  thing.  You've  been  infernally 
square  with  me  and  I'll  try  to  reciprocate.  I  was 
in  love  with  Valentine  ...  at  least,  I  thought  so, 
I'm  not  now  .  .  .  and  I  haven't  been  for  a  long 
time.  I've  blundered  along,  I'll  admit,  but  I 
never  really  wanted  her  .  .  .  only  I  was  too  much 
of  a  fool  to  know  it  or  too  big  a  coward  to  ad 
mit  it.  I  did  make  a  bargain  with  Valentine; 


At  the  Ranger's  Cabin  299 

she  put  me  on  a  sort  of  probation  for  a  year 
and  I  haven't  made  good.  .  .  .  What's  more, 
Crete,  so  far  as  that  end  of  it  is  concerned,  I  don't 
care  now  whether  I  ever  do,  only  .«,.  .  well,  the 
truth  is  I  had  set  my  heart  on  helping  out  with  the 
settlers.  That  seems  so  awfully  worth  while. " 

"The  Lost  Lake  plan  came  pretty  near  being 
killed  off,  didn't  it?"  she  put  in. 

"Pretty  near?  Why,  it  is  killed  off— as  dead 
as  free  silver. "  The  thought  deepened  his  gloom. 
"Thanks  to  you  and  Dad,  though,  it  almost  had  a 
resurrection.  You  might  have  put  it  over  if  I 
hadn't  reappeared  on  the  scene  and  messed  every 
thing  up  with  that  dynamite  and  the  slide — 
including  my  addle-brained  head." 

"You  certainly  came  precious  near  addling  it," 
she  laughed.  Evidence  of  downheartedness  on 
his  part  seemed  a  sure  signal  for  the  return  of  her 
own  good  spirits. 

"Crete,  how  did  you  get  in  on  it?"  He  had 
become  increasingly  curious  on  that  score  as  he 
pondered  the  events  of  the  last  day.  "What 
brought  you  up  into  the  hills?" 

She  regarded  him  quietly  for  a  space,  pondering 
some  secret  problem. 

"You  left  a  note  in  the  safe,  telling  Pharaoh  you 
were  going, "  she  said  finally. 

"But  surely  that  didn't  start  you  following 
me  into  the  young  blizzard."  His  interest  was 
thoroughly  aroused.  "You  must  have  known 
about  the  plan  to  arrest  me. " 


300        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

She  nodded,  the  color  ebbing  from  her  face.'a 

"Come,  tell  me,"  he  insisted,  "it's  puzzled  me 
how  those  highwaymen  got  wind  of  it  ?  So  far  as 
I  remember  Pharaoh  and  you  and  perhaps  Dad 
are  the  only  ones  who  knew  about  my  plans  with 
the  Lake." 

But  scarcely  were  the  words  out  of  his  mouth 
when  he  recalled,  as  vividly  as  if  the  conversation 
had  just  ended,  his  talk  with  Valentine  on  the 
porch  of  the  Company  House  when  he  had  unfolded 
all  the  chief  details  of  his  Lost  Lake  enterprise. 
What  is  more,  the  fact  that  he  remembered,  and 
guessed  the  truth,  was  written  large  upon  his  face. 
And  the  girl  before  him  saw  and  understood,  as 
thoroughly  as  if  he  had  spoken  aloud  the  bitter 
thoughts  which  crowded  into  his  brain. 

"She  told  them?" 

Crete  faced  him  steadily,  in  troubled  silence. 

"But  why  should  she  do  it?"  He  was  not 
completely  bitter  yet.  That  would  come  soon 
enough.  Crete,  with  the  in-seeing  way  of  a  woman 
understood  that,  too.  And  she  felt  curiously  sorry 
for  the  other  girl. 

1 '  It  was  her  father  you  were  fighting.  What  did 
you  expect?" 

"God  knows!"  he  replied,  letting  his  head  fall 
back  upon  the  blankets,  so  the  throbbing  would 
be  gentler  and  he  could,  perhaps,  think  out  some 
salvage  from  the  wrecks  about  him. 

Crete  let  him  lie  there  while  she  worked.  First 
she  made  dough,  and  after  getting  the  fire  in  the 


At  the  Ranger's  Cabin  301 

little  stove  on  a  substantial  basis,  where  it  neither 
threatened  to  burn  out  the  oven  nor  leave  its 
corners  chilly,  she  set  about  baking  as  many 
biscuits  as  the  available  pans  would  hold.  Also 
she  found  a  sack  of  beans,  and  put  a  pot  of  them 
to  boil.  Then  she  filled  the  improvised  water 
bucket  and  replenished  the  supply  of  firewood. 
Lastly  she  arranged  the  provisions  where  Kent 
could  get  them  readily. 

"Now,  David,  you'll  have  to  try  the  chair 
again. " 

It  was  the  first  she  had  spoken  in  half  an  hour, 
and  all  the  time  he  had  been  lying  there  with  his 
face  to  the  wall.  When  he  had  scrambled  out  she 
arranged  the  spruce  boughs,  which  by  now  were 
dry,  in  the  bunk,  making  a  springy,  sweet-smelling 
mattress.  And  upon  it  she  permitted  her  invalid 
to  climb,  still  glumly  silent,  after  redressing  his 
wound. 

"Now,"  said  Crete,  "Fantan  and  I'll  migrate. 
It's  about  noon,  I  imagine,  although  my  watch 
gave  up  the  ghost  last  night.  I've  arranged  every 
thing  here  so  you  will  be  comfortable  and  have 
plenty  to  eat.  There's  bread  enough,  of  a  sort, 
and  if  you'll  keep  sticking  wood  in  the  stove  those 
beans  will  be  edible  by  evening.  And  there's 
bacon,  with  a  pan  to  fry  it  in,  and  all  the  corn  meal 
you  can  eat,  which  only  needs  to  be  boiled. 
There's  even  sugar  in  that  bag  on  the  table. 
Altogether,  you'll  live  like  a  king  .  .  .  and  I  hope 
you'll  be  comfortable. " 


302         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

She  paused  for  a  last  look  around.  She  was 
ready  to  go,  and  yet  hesitated. 

"Are  you  feeling  all  right?  Is  there  anything 
else  I  can  do?" 

The  words  were  woefully  inadequate.  They  did 
not — they  dared  not — convey  the  emotion  behind 
them. 

"Crete,"  he  roused  himself,  "you've  made  me 
so  comfortable  I'm  positively  ashamed  .  .  .ex 
cept,  "  he  added  ruefully,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
head,  "this  head-piece  of  mine  begins  to  waltz  as 
soon  as  it's  raised  up  a  bit. " 

"That's  to  be  expected.  You've  had  a  slight 
concussion.  So  long  as  you  lie  quietly  it  will  be 
all  right,  and  you  can  get  around  a  little  without 
hurting  anything. ' ' 

"That  will  be  exciting,"  he  grinned,  or  tried  to 
grin,  but  his  face  was  too  drawn  to  do  it  success 
fully.  "Anyway,  I'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  think 
what  a  rotten  failure  I've  made  of  everything  .  .  . 
and  to  consider  other  matters."  He  was  rather 
limp  now,  although  still  half  sitting  up.  "It's  all 
off  with  the  settlers  and  my  Lost  Lake  plan 
and  .  .  . "  he  did  not  say  it,  but  his  mind  thought 
it,  and  the  girl,  watching,  read  it  aright.  And  that 
unspoken  thought  was  worded.  "It's  good-bye 
to  Valentine,  too. " 

"Amen,"  said  Crete,  almost  aloud. 

"Eh?    What's  that?" 

"Nothing,  David.  I  was  just  thinking  you're 
too  pessimistic.  Don't  give  up. " 


At  the  Ranger's  Cabin  303 

"Give  up?  Why  shouldn't  I?  I'm  not  far 
removed  from  a  common  failure." 

There  seemed  little  more  to  say,  or  to  do. 

"Good-bye." 

The  door  closed  behind  her. 

"Good-bye,  dear  Failure  .  .  ."  she  was  on  Fan- 
tan  now,  smiling  through  a  mist  of  tears  .  .  . 
"dear  successful  Failure. " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE   TRIAL 

NOT  since  the  settlers'  meeting  had  the  hard 
benches  of  the  Grange  Hall  accommodated  such  an 
audience  as  gathered  to  witness  the  trial  of  David 
Kent,  charged  with  the  illegal  destruction  of 
property. 

Seemingly  everyone  in  and  about  Farewell  knew 
the  young  Easterner  had  returned  that  morning 
from  his  mysterious  trip,  forthwith  surrendering 
himself  and  demanding  an  immediate  hearing 
before  Justice  of  the  Peace  Asahel  Brush,  on  the 
warrant  issued  for  his  arrest.  If  guilty,  as  charged, 
he  would  be  bound  over  to  the  Grand  Jury,  under 
bond,  and  subsequently  would  undergo  trial  at 
the  next  session  of  the  Circuit  Court.  If  innocent 
— but  no  one  conceived  such  a  possibility. 

"We've  got  the  goods  on  him  sure  this  time," 
growled  Hart  pool  with  satisfaction. 

"It's  a  bygod  shame,  but  it  looks  as  if  they'd 
cinch  him, "  lamented  Dad  Trumble. 

Thus  it  went  throughout  the  improvised  court 
room.  Everyone  was  convinced  of  Kent's  guilt 
.  .  .  indeed,  there  was  no  logical  possibility  of 

304 


The  Trial  305 

feeling  otherwise,  for  had  not  Pharaoh  Jones 
admitted  the  identity  of  the  nocturnal  marauder 
who  had  wrecked  the  special  edition  of  the  Pioneer? 
And  was  not  the  editor  himself  to  appear  as  a 
witness  for  the  prosecution?  So  the  company 
crowd  was  elated  and  Kent's  settler  friends  regret 
fully  pessimistic. 

Wendall,  the  district  attorney  from  Round- 
ville,  was  on  hand.  Failing  had  seen  to  that, 
gloatingly  determined  to  settle  scores  once  and  for 
all  with  the  meddlesome  Easterner.  A  fat  fine  or  a 
few  months  in  the  county  jail,  he  felt,  would  have 
a  wholesomely  discouraging  effect.  The  wind, 
which  had  started  out  so  ill,  was;  blowing  well  for 
him  at  last.  And  with  everything  developing  as 
he  wished  it,  the  big  manager  seemed  all  smiles  and 
purring  good  nature  as  he  whispered  with  the 
imported  attorney. 

Wendall,  a  hard-headed,  catch-as-catch-can  cow 
country  prosecutor,  wasted  no  time  on  prelimin 
aries. 

"Does  the  defendant  demand  a  jury?"  he 
asked,  as  soon  as  old  Asahel  had  rapped  for  order. 

The  defendant  did  not,  to  the  astonishment  of 
everyone. 

The  problem  of  selecting  a  satisfactory  jury 
had  been  the  only  fly  in  the  ointment  of  Failing's 
oily  satisfaction.  He  foresaw  a  fight  there  and  had 
already  prepared  lists  of  "ineligibles"  for  Wen 
dall  's  guidance  and  coached  the  prosecutor  as  to 
whom  should  be  avoided.  So  when  the  prisoner 


306         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

waived  his  right  for  jury  trial  the  manager's  cup 
of  content  fairly  brimmed  over.  Things  certainly 
were  coming  his  way.  Thinking  that,  he  passed 
an  excellent  cigar  to  Wendall  and  lit  one  himself. 

There  was  another  ripple  of  surprise  when  it 
became  apparent  that  Kent  had  no  attorney. 
Evidently  he  intended  to  handle  his  own  case,  and 
seeing  that  the  wise  ones  who  knew  WendalTs 
abilities  shook  their  heads  sorrowfully. 

"Why,  is  he  a  lawyer?"  a  rangy  settler  whis 
pered  hoarsely  in  Dad  Trumble's  ear. 

"Nary  a  bit!"  growled  that  staunch  friend  in 
reply,  his  voice  laden  with  anxious  disapproval. 
"It's  a  plumb  mistake,  too.  Dave's  a  bright  lad, 
but  he's  no  match  for  that  bygod  persecutor. " 

Dad's  feelings  were  echoed  throughout  the  hall. 
Even  Crete  wondered  at  these  developments, 
regretfully;  she  expected  that  Kent  would  lose, 
but  she  also  expected  him  to  make  a  fight  for  free 
dom.  But  most  curious  of  all  was  the  aspect  of 
Pharaoh,  who  seemed  not  the  least  cast  down  at 
Kent's  apparent  apathy;  in  truth,  the  usually 
somber  editor  appeared  positively  to  twinkle  with 
ill-suppressed  gaiety  and  anticipation. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  stated  the  charge 
and  outlined  the  main  facts  of  the  case,  as  alleged 
by  the  prosecution. 

"Guilty  or  not  guilty?"  asked  the  justice  of  the 
peace. 

Kent  rose,  then,  with  his  boyish  smile.  But  his 
face  showed  pale  beneath  the  piratical  looking 


The  Trial  307 

bandage  which  cross-sectioned  his  head  with  a 
rakish  halo.  The  wound  had  left  him  weak. 

"Guilty  as  charged"  ...  an  audible  and  re 
gretful  sigh  escaped  the  audience  .  .  .  "and  not 
guilty  of  any  crime  I ' ' 

Wendall  was  on  his  feet  in  a  flash. 

"I  object!"  he  shouted,  scenting  a  play  for 
sympathy.  "Your  Honor,  the  defendant  can't 
plead  both  guilty  and  not  guilty  ...  it's  impossi 
ble  .  .  .  there's  no  authority  in  law  for  it.  .  .  ." 

"And  there's  no  authority  anywhere  for  arrest 
ing  an  innocent  man, "  shot  back  Kent. 

"Innocent?"  The  prosecutor  was  politely  fa 
cetious.  "You  just  plead  guilty.  Your  Honor, " 
he  turned  to  Asahel  with  a  depreciating  shrug, 
"there's  no  use  wasting  the  court's  valuable  time 
with  this  foolishness.  ...  I  suggest  the  young 
gentleman  secures  an  attorney  familiar  with  legal 
procedure  to  represent  him. " 

"One  lawyer  in  the  room  is  all  I  can  stand, "  the 
prisoner  retorted  grinning  impertinently,  and  a 
gust  of  approving  titters  swept  the  benches. 

Old  Asahel  pounded  the  hammer  which  did  duty 
as  a  gavel ;  the  feeling  of  authority  was  reassuring. 

"Guilty  or  not  guilty?"  He  took  refuge  in 
repetition. 

"I'm  guilty  of  wrecking  the  forms  in  the  print 
shop.  ...  I  did  that  all  right,  only  ..." 

1 '  I  object ! ' '  roared  Wendall  again.  ' '  He  pleads 
guilty.  There's  nothing  else  to  it  ...  no  'ifV 
and  'and's'  about  it." 


308       -The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

"Exactly,"  breathed  Failing. 

"Oh,  aren't  there?"  Kent's  eyes  flashed  this 
time.  "And  who  imported  you?" 

"As  district  attorney  it's  my  duty,"  replied 
Wendall  with  dignity,  "to  prosecute  malefactors. " 

"Fair  enough!  But  I'm  not  a  malefactor  and 
just  remember  that  before  we  get  through  you'll 
be  prosecuting  someone  else. " 

However,  the  informality  of  these  proceedings 
were  here  interrupted  by  Asahel,  and  the  trial  got 
under  way.  Kent,  seeing  it  all  was  regular  and 
unavoidable  and  with  next  to  no  ideas  himself 
about  legal  maneuvering,  subsided  temporarily, 
with  an  amused  expression  disconcerting  to  the 
prosecutor  every  time  his  eyes  encountered  the 
prisoner's. 

First  came  Failing,  who  told  of  stumbling  over 
the  editor  in  the  shop  where  he  had  fainted  after 
discovering  the  wreckage.  He  also  described  find 
ing  the  envelope  addressed  to  Kent  and  gave  fur 
ther  information  tending  to  establish  the  prisoner's 
hostility  to  the  Bonanza  Irrigation  Company. 

Through  this  recital  the  accused  sat  in  bored 
apathy,  but  at  the  end  of  it,  when  Wendall  was 
on  the  point  of  calling  another  witness,  he  roused 
himself. 

"I  object!"  His  excellent  imitation  of  the 
prosecutor  brought  a  smile.  "As  my  own  attor 
ney  I've  a  right  to  do  that,  haven't  I  ? " 

With  elaborate  deference  he  turned  to  Wendall, 
who  nodded  sourly. 


The  Trial  309 

' 'Well,  your  Honor,  I'm  like  the  district 
attorney  here  ...  I  object  to  wasting  time. 
There's  no  good  reason  to  drag  this  out  all  after 
noon  .  .  .  lawyers  don't  even  get  paid  by  the 
hour,  I'm  advised.  If  it  isn't  enough  for  me  to 
plead  guilty  why  not  call  Pharaoh  Jones  and  be 
done  with  it  ...  he'll  swear  I  did  it  ...  he  saw 
me.  I've  no  witnesses  to  call  .  .  .  only  a  little 
statement  to  make  when  my  legal  friend  over  there 
has  shot  his  wad.  " 

But  again  it  appeared  that  Kent  was  out  of 
order.  His  plea  could  come  at  the  last,  after  such 
cross  examination  as  he  cared  to  make.  And  in 
the  meantime  Wendall  proceeded  with  examin 
ation  of  his  witnesses.  It  was  perfunctory  and 
hurried,  however,  for  now  he  was  entirely  certain 
that  the  case  was  won  and  the  prisoner  convicted ; 
anything  else  was  palpably  impossible.  Crete, 
Pharaoh,  Miranda,  and  Frost,  the  stable  man,  all 
contributed  their  damning  quota.  Miss  Pennoyer 
alone  was  absent.  The  only  possible  flaw  was  the 
non-appearance  of  that  envelope  addressed  to 
Kent  which  Failing  said  he  had  found. 

"Now,  Asahel — that  is,  your  Honor,"  Kent 
rose  when  the  testimony  was  all  heard  and  Wendall 
had  refastened  the  guilt  upon  him  with  logical 
and  scathing  completeness,  winding  up  with  the 
demand  that  he  be  bound  over  to  the  Grand  Jury. 
"Is  it  in  order  for  me  to  ...  ahem  .  .  .  say  a 
few  well-chosen  words?" 

The  J.  P.  nodded.     But  he  knew  it  could  make 


310        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

no  difference ;  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but 
sustain  the  charge. 

''Thanks.  I'm  no  attorney,  as  my  friend  has 
insinuated,  but  I'll  try  to  make  a  sort  of  plea.  Per 
haps  throwing  myself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court  is 
the  legal  way  to  put  it  ...  anyhow,  it's  by  way  of 
setting  forth  an  extenuating  circumstance. " 

Failing  was  smiling  at  him  in  an  insulting,  mock 
ing  way,  and  he  saw  it. 

"First,  I  desire  to  put  a  question  to  the  honor 
able  district  attorney. " 

Wendall,  with  a  patronizing  smirk,  signified  his 
willingness  to  answer. 

"Is  it  a  crime  for  a  man  to  destroy  his  own 
property?" 

"What's  that?" 

"A  simple  question. "  The  prisoner  cleared  his 
throat,  smiling  sweetly.  "Suppose  I  own  a  build 
ing  and  I  take  a  notion  to  wreck  its  contents,  every 
bit  of  which  belongs  to  me — would  that  be  illegal  ? " 

"Certainly  not!"  the  attorney  snapped  con 
temptuously,  not  in  the  least  foreseeing  what 
would  follow. 

"Well  then,  your  Honor  and  friends  of  Fare 
well"  ...  he  turned  to  the  audience,  and  especi 
ally  to  James  Failing  .  .  .  "it's  exactly  as  I  tried 
to  say  at  the  start  when  they  choked  me  off. 
I  did  just  as  they  said  I  did — broke  up  those 
forms  in  the  Pioneer  shop  .  .  .  only  it  wasn't 
illegal  .  .  .  because  I  own  the  Pioneer i  " 

"Jumpin'  Jemima!"     Dad  Trumble  first  broke 


The  Trial  311 

the  silence,  his  delighted  whoop  echoing  like  an 
Apache  yell.  "If  that  ain't  the  bygodest 

But  the  observation  was  swallowed  in  the  deluge 
of  cheers,  handclapping,  and  hoots  which  rocked  the 
hall  as  comprehension  of  Kent's  statement  spread. 

Before  the  first  joyous  uproar  had  subsided  the 
prisoner  himself  was  thrusting  into  the  hands  of  the 
district  attorney  documentary  proof  of  his  owner 
ship,  in  the  shape  of  a  bill  of  sale  duly  signed  by 
Pharaoh  and  dated  the  day  of  the  alleged  crime. 

"And  here, "  chortled  Pharaoh,  "is  the  check  he 
gave  me  that  morning.  " 

As  Wendall,  amazed  and  disgusted,  mechanic 
ally  fingered  these  proofs  positive,  James  Failing 
elbowed  into  the  group,  his  eyes  red  with  anger. 

' '  It's  a  bogus  sale  ...  a  forgery, ' '  he  sputtered. 
"No  money  passed  .  .  .  don't  you  see,  it's  just  a 
fake  framed  up  to  clear  himP'V;, 

"Your  trouble,  Failing,  is  you've  gone  lame 
above  the  shoulders,"  retorted  Kent.  "And 
you're  a  rotten  loser.  It  wouldn't  have  mattered 
if  Pharaoh  never  cashed  my  check.  What  counts 
is  that  he  gave  me  the  bill  of  sale,  for  value  received, 
and  you  know  it.  I've  been  the  legal  owner  of  the 
Pioneer  since  noon  that  day  and  so  far  as  you  or 
your  district  attorney  are  concerned  I  could  have 
hammered  the  whole  works  into  a  pulp  that  night 
and  you  couldn't  do  a  thing  to  me.  You  didn't 
own  that  special  edition.  You  were  simply  going 
to  pay  for  it  when  delivered,  and  you  never  turned 
over  a  cent." 


312        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

He  laughed  full  in  Failing's  face,  and  it  was  not 
a^pleasant  boyish  laugh. 

"I  just  babied  you  along  with  this  trial  to  show 
you  up  good  and  proper,  and  I  think  I've  done  it. 
You  started  out  to  'get '  me,  Mr.  Manager,  and  in 
stead  I  reckon  you've  got  yourself  into  a  merry 
little  mess.  Probably  the  next  legal  work  I  under 
take  will  be  an  action  against  someone  for  hav 
ing  me  arrested  without  cause. "  He  turned  to  the 
district  attorney.  "There's  a  case  for  damages, 
isn't  there?" 

Wendall  was  too  old  a  hand  to  cry  over  spilled 
milk.  So  he  grinned  good-naturedly  and  nodded. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised,  Mr.  Kent.  Anyway, 
I  believe  it's  safer  to  be  on  your  side  than  against 
you!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

WELCOME  WATER 

? 

"As  trials  go,  that's  an  epic, "  observed  Pharaoh 
as  they  made  their  triumphant  exit. 

"  Short,  sweet,  and  to  the  point,  anyway, "  Kent 
agreed. 

"But  when  you  get  right  down  to  cases,"  con 
tinued  the  jubilant  editor,  "what's  actually  the 
most  remarkable  feature  of  the  whole  business  is 
that  I  managed  to  keep  mum  so  long — its  the  only 
real  secret  I  ever  had  from  Miranda." 

"You'd  better  hurry  and  make  up  with  her, 
then." 

Despite  his  attempted  jocularity  the  ex-prisoner 
and  new  owner  of  the  Pioneer  seemed  dull  and 
preoccupied.  The  altogether  satisfying  outcome 
of  the  trial,  even,  had  left  him  inexplicably 
somber. 

"You're  looking  a  mite  funeraly,  Dave.  If  I'd 
put  over  what  you've  just  done  I'd  be  tickled  to 
death."  Pharaoh  laid  his  hand  on  the  young 
man's  shoulder.  "Nothing  wrong,  is  there?" 

Their  feet  had  turned  toward  the  river  and  they 
found  themselves  now  on  the  lawn  before  the 

3*3 


314        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Company  House.  Half  consciously  Kent  noted 
the  untidy  brown  covering  of  new-fallen  needles 
littering  the  grass,  realizing  that  the  house  itself 
was  closed  for  the  winter.  That  Valentine  had 
gone  he  already  knew,  but  the  deserted  barrenness 
of  the  place,  where  he  had  last  seen  the  girl  and 
where  he  had  told  her  his  plans  only  to  have  the 
confidence  abused,  depressed  him  further.  The 
dull  misery  of  those  recollections  started  his  head 
aching  again  and  realizing  anew  how  weak  the 
wound  and  the  shock  of  it  had  left  him,  he  gladly 
rested  upon  the  steps  of  the  deserted  porch. 

"Yes,  Fair,  there's  plenty  wrong.  I'm  glad  you 
urged  me  to  come  in  ta  get  that  fool  warrant  out  of 
the  way  before  I  went  East — the  trial  was  worth 
the  trip.  I'll  never  forget  the  look  on  Failing's 
face !  That  helped,  all  right,  but  taken  all  in  all  he 
is  the  one  who  comes  out  on  top  of  the  heap  .  .  . 
I'm  done. " 

"Goodness  me!  That  sounds  mournful."  It 
was  the  quiet  voice  of  Crete  Colton. 

"Anyway,  congratulations!"  she  hurried  on, 
happily.  "Everyone  but  your  friend  Mr.  Failing 
is  talking  about  the  trial — what  he  says  can't 
be  repeated!  Really,  you're  a  lot  better  lawyer 
than  you  are  dynamiter. " 

He  thanked  her,  and  the  smile  which  lit  his  face 
made  it  for  the  moment  genuinely  carefree. 

"But  tell  me"  .  .  .  she  glanced  over  her  shoul 
der  in  mock  apprehension  .  .  .  "did  you  really 
intend  Pharaoh  to  cash  that  check  .  .  and  are 


Welcome  Water  315 

you  going  to  become  a  law-abiding  newspaper 
man?" 

"That  I  refuse  to  answer  ...  on  advice  of 
counsel." 

"And  being  your  own  attorney  of  course  it's 
good  advice  ...  at  least,  easy  to  take !  Anyway, 
I'll  not  press  the  question,  and  like  a  good  girl  111 
run  along  now.  ...  I'm  going  over  to  congratu 
late  Miranda  upon  having  such  a  discreet  hus 
band,  "  she  added,  mischievously. 

"Oh!  goodness,  please  .  .  .  that  is  ..."  the 
editor's  words  tangled.  Above  all  things  he 
wished  to  break  the  news  to  Miranda  himself. 

"You  see  the  duplicity  of  the  man!"  David 
laughed.  "He  actually  fears  you'll  make  trouble 
for  him  with  his  wife.  Pharaoh,  take  my  advice 
and  get  to  Miranda  as  quickly  as  you  can.  In  the 
meanwhile  I'll  detain  this  telltale  until  you've  had 
a  chance  to  square  yourself  .  .  .  that  is,  if  she'll 
stay.  Will  you?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  answered  Crete. 

When  the  lean  figure  of  the  editor  had  shuffled 
off  across  the  lawn  beyond  earshot,  the  girl,  set 
tling  herself  on  the  steps  below  David,  said  to 
him,  without  turning  her  head : 

"Quitting  again?" 

Silence  for  a  moment.  He  recalled  how  once 
before  she  had  encountered  him  on  the  point  of 
abandoning  Farewell.  That  time  he  wavered  only 
momentarily.  But  now  everything  was  different. 
There  was  no  incentive  to  push  on.  Before,  he 


316         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

had  expected  to  win  Valentine  over,  at  least  to  a 
realization  of  the  justice  of  the  settlers'  cause;  and 
now  Valentine  was  gone,  contemptuous  of  Farewell 
and  of  himself.  Before,  he  was  buoyed  up  by  the 
hopeful  expectation  of  solving  all  the  irrigation 
problems  through  his  plan  for  capturing  the 
waters  of  Lost  Lake,  a  remedy  overlooked  by  the 
engineers  themselves  with  the  unimaginative  nar 
rowness  so  often  typical  of  technical  men;  and 
now,  thanks  to  a  blizzard,  a  warrant,  and  a  dyna 
mite-thrown  rock,  his  scheme  had  come  to  melo 
dramatic  ruin.  Failing,  no  doubt,  was  already 
in  possession  of  those  water  rights  .  .  .  had  them, 
indeed,  because  the  girl  for  whom  he  undertook  it 
all  had  betrayed  him. 

"Quitting  again?"  This  other  girl's  question 
sounded  in  his  ear,  as  he  gazed  forlornly  out  over 
the  gray  water  of  Welcome  River  that  chill  October 
afternoon. 

"No,  not  again  .  .  .  still." 

He  tried  to  be  jocular,  succeeding  miserably. 
Then  he  recalled  that  on  that  other  occasion,  at 
the  Pioneer  office,  when  Crete  had  reproached  his 
ebbing  resolution,  she  herself  had  finally  an 
nounced  her  intention  of  quitting  Farewell. 

"Why  so  sad,  David?  Now  that  it's  all  over 
.  .  .  that  awful  time  up  in  the  mountains,  I'm  so" 
.  .  .  she  faltered  .  .  .  "so  happy."  Despite  the 
wistfulness  of  her  voice  the  whole  look  and  spirit 
of  her  was  radiant.  "And  it's  so  good  to  get  back 
to  Farewell.  ...  Of  course,  if  what  you  are  go- 


Welcome  Water  317 

ing  to  do  is  a  secret  ..."  she  sighed  whimsi 
cally  and  stopped,  her  eyes,  too,  studying  the 
steely-cold  waters  swirling  so  steadily  on  their 
everlasting  way. 

Secret?  An  unreasonable  desire  surged  within 
him  to  blurt  out  that  he  could  have  no  secrets  from 
her.  Memories  of  the  ranger  cabin  smote  him 
sweetly,  and  fresh  realization  of  his  heart's  awaken 
ing  there.  But  all  that  was  over.  He  was  deter 
mined  to  put  that  behind  him.  .  .  . 

"It's  no  secret,  Crete."  He  found  his  voice, 
but  it  was  lifeless  and  dull.  "It's  just  that  I'm 
through.  I'm  going  back  East  .  .  .  there's  noth 
ing  to  stay  for  now. " 

She  caught  her  breath  at  that  and  all  the  glad 
ness  left  her.  "Nothing  to  stay  for  now. "  What 
a  phrase!  Each  word  cut  into  her  heart  and  her 
happiness  as  her  lips  soundlessly  repeated  them. 
She  had  hoped — oh,  how  wildly  she  had  dared 
hope!  And  how  foolishly.  Valentine  was  gone 
.  .  .  gone  to  that  "Back  East"  where  David  was 
now  to  follow.  .  .  .  And  that,  a  cool,  comfortless 
voice  within  her  argued,  was  to  be  expected. 
Curiously  little  resentment  embittered  this  sub 
conscious  realization;  there  was  no  effort,  for  in 
stance,  to  justify  David's  protestations  at  the 
cabin  that  the  other  girl  meant  nothing  further  to 
him.  The  deep  sad  hurt  of  it  all  was  glossed  over,  at 
least,  by  the  good  unselfish  generosity  of  her  spirit. 

But  what  was  the  man  saying?  What,  at  least, 
was  he  trying  to  say,  for  the  words  came  painfully 


318         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

slow,  weighted  with  their  own  inadequacy  to  ex 
press  the  intangible  things  within  him. 

"It's  hard  to  quit  ...  to  leave  Farewell." 
The  words  dragged  out  of  him  in  colorless  proces 
sion,  as  if  he  were  arguing,  sullenly,  with  himself. 
His  body  was  sick  and  weary  and  his  hope  and  en 
thusiasm  dead.  "I  came  here  for  a  purpose  .  .  . 
you  know  about  that  .  .  .  rainbow  chasing,  I  sup 
pose.  And  just  as  I  had  my  hands  on  the  pot  of  gold 
it  all  melted  away  .  .  .  at  least"  .  .  .  he  realized 
that  was  not  the  truth  of  it  .  .  .  "at  least  I  found 
that  instead  of  the  expected  gold  it  was  only  dross 
.  .  .  and  I  didn't  want  it." 

She  drew  in  her  breath  there,  sharply.  But  the 
square  little  shoulders  and  the  crown  of  dusty  hair 
remained  firm  and  motionless. 

"It's  all  just  as  I  tried  to  say  to  you  in  the  cabin 
that  morning  when  .  .  .  when  the  blinders  fell 
from  my  eyes.  I  didn't  care  and  I  really  never 
cared  for  ...  for  ...  well,  there's  no  need  for 
names.  That's  all  over.  But  I  had  somehow 
come  to  care  tremendously  about  this  fight  here  at 
Farewell,  and  the  way  out  of  it  all  .  .  .  the  way  to 
justice  and  happiness  for  these  poor  people  seemed 
so  easy  ...  so  attainable  ..."  He  paused 
there,  rubbing  his  brow  as  one  banishes  memories 
of  unpleasant  dreams.  "It's  just  that  I  didn't 
quite  make  good,  Crete.  So  I'm  quitting,  as  you 
are  quitting,  too. " 

"I'm  quitting  too?"  She  echoed  the  words 
wonderingly.  "Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 


Welcome  Water  319 

He  looked  down  on  her,  hungering  to  lay  his 
hands  upon  the  dusty  hair. 

"You  told  us  you'd  accepted  that  teaching  job 
in  Seattle.  I  supposed"  .  .  .  some  new  thought 
roused  him  there  .  .  .  "I  supposed  you  were  leav 
ing  Farewell.  .  .  .  Aren't  you?" 

Had  the  girl  turned  to  give  her  answer  she 
would  have  seen,  and  perhaps  comprehended,  the 
sudden  light  which  transformed  the  pale  features  of 
the  young  man  who  was  leaving  Farewell. 

But  Crete  did  not  turn.  Instead,  her  eyes  were 
very  intent  upon  the  leaden  waters  of  Welcome 
River,  and  the  point  where  they  focused  lay  just 
at  the  water's  edge  on  the  opposite  bank  where  a 
smooth,  coiling  eddy  lapped  the  flank  of  a  great, 
straight-sided  stone  rising  sheer  from  the  river's 
depths.  The  girl's  attention,  idly  roaming,  had 
unconsciously  fastened  upon  this  rock  until  sud 
denly  the  phenomenon  of  the  water's  steady  rise 
along  its  surface  roused  her.  At  first  she  sus 
pected  her  eyes  of  playing  a  trick,  and  she  rubbed 
them  and  fixed  her  gaze  with  redoubled  concen 
tration  upon  the  telltale  rock.  .  .  .  Assuredly 
there  was  no  illusion;  the  surface  of  Welcome 
River  was  steadily  rising.  She  focused  hard 
upon  a  tuft  of  moss  which  showed  exactly  at  the 
water's  edge,  and  as  she  looked  the  moss  dis 
appeared.  In  like  manner  a  dark  crack,  which  had 
been  several  inches  above  the  surface,  slowly  was 
swallowed. 

''David!    Look!" 


320        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

She  pointed,  but  he  did  not  comprehend. 

"Don't  you  see?  .  .  .     The  river  is  rising." 

Even  then  he  did  not  grasp  the  meaning  of  it, 
until  she  had  shown  him  how,  inch  by  inch,  old 
Welcome  River,  whose  flow  had  never  been  known. 
to  vary,  was  suddenly  and  mysteriously  gathering 
volume. 

' '  It's  Lost  Lake !  The  outlet  you  dammed  with 
your  avalanche  has  backed  up  and  overflowed  to 
the  east,  just  as  you  said  it  would.  It  must  have 
taken  days  to  fill  the  lake  to  the  new  level  and  a 
long  time,  too,  for  the  water  to  find  its  way  down 
the  old  stream  bed  to  Little  Lake  and  Welcome 
River  .  .  .  and  it's  just  got  here  .  .  .  just  in  time 
to  welcome  you  back. " 

Crete  was  almost  hysterical  with  joy.  She 
laughed  and  cried  all  at  the  same  time,  while  the 
man  wondered  at  her.  He  could  not  understand. 

Nor  could  the  girl  comprehend  him.  The*  com 
ing  of  that  water  from  Lost  Lake,  a  thing  of  his 
own  accomplishment,  seemed  to  mean  nothing  to 
him.  He  appeared  almost  sullenly  indifferent. 

"Why,  David"  .  .  .  the  happy  tears  adorably 
became  her  .  .  .  "your  plan  worked.  It's  the 
key  to  it  all  ...  and  we  win ! " 

"We  win?"  he  repeated  numbly. 

"Just  exactly  that. "  She  wanted  to  kiss  him, 
he  looked  so  dejected — and  for  other  reasons. 
' '  There'll  be  enough  water  now  for  the  South  Canal 
segregation. " 

"Yep."    He  was  blunt,  almost  savage.    "That's 


Welcome  Water  321 

fine  for  Failing.  I  hope  to  God  it  helps  the 
settlers. " 

"But  David  .  .  ."  she  paused,  open  mouthed. 

All  at  once  she  understood.  He  did  not  know! 
He  had  not  even  guessed  the  accomplishment 
which  made  her  so  happy  and  so  sure  of  success! 
As  that  realization  dawned,  her  happiness  surged 
up  with  a  consuming  flame  which  lit  her  cheeks  and 
made  her  heart  sing.  He  did  not  know ;  he  thought 
himself  beaten.  And  it  was  for  her  to  tell  him, 
to  explain  that  defeat  was  really  victory. 

"But  David,  it  isn't  Failing's.  Your  filing  on 
the  overflow  of  Lost  Lake  has  been  accepted  .  .  . 
it's  yours.  Oh!  David,  don't  you  see  what  a 
glorious  success  your  plan  has  been  and  .  .  . 
and  ..."  she  dared  not  end  that  sentence. 

"My  .  .  .  filing  .  .  .  has  .  .  .  been  ...  ac 
cepted?"  he  gasped.  "How  .  .  .  what  the  dev — 
say,  Crete,  don't  joke  with  me. "  He  was  stern, 
even  in  his  bewilderment.  "Why,  I  didn't  even 
make  a  filing." 

"Of  course  you  didn't!"  The  girl  laughed 
outright  at  his  puzzled  expression.  "I  did  the 
filing  for  you." 

"You?" 

"Yes.  Little  me.  After  leaving  you  at  the 
cabin  I  made  up  my  mind  it  simply  wouldn't  do  to 
let  you  lose  out  .  .  .  you  seemed  so  pathetically 
down  on  your  luck  ...  it  must  have  been  pity. " 
Her  eyes  twinkled.  "Also,  I'd  a  little  plan  of  my 
own  which  your  resurrection  had  sidetracked.  So 


322        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

Fantan  and  I  hurried  through  to  the  railroad. 
Things  came  out  beautifully  ...  I  just  caught 
the  morning  train. " 

"Good  Lord!  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  rode 
all  night?" 

"Of  course.  At  that  we  had  exactly  twenty 
minutes  to  spare  for  the  seven  o'clock  train  to 
Salem.  It  wasn't  so  bad,"  she  reassured  him 
lightly.  "Whenever  I  was  nearly  ready  to  fag 
out  something  would  make  me  think  about  the 
Sorensons  when  their  crops  burned  up  for  lack  of 
water  last  summer,  or  I'd  see  Callier  making  his 
filing  just  ahead  of  me  .  .  .  and  that  would  brace 
me  up  and  we'd  keep  on  plugging  along  that  end 
less  old  trail. " 

As  she  recounted  her  experiences,  Kent,  too, 
summoned  up  a  mental  picture.  He  could  see  the 
weary  girl  urging  on  the  little  horse  through  the 
black  night,  with  the  rain  beating  down  upon  them 
and  the  inky  shadows  of  the  fir  trees  engulfing  them 
as  they  wallowed  through  mudholes  and  made 
stumbling  detours  around  fallen  logs,  while  the 
dank  underbrush  slapped  in  their  faces,  soaking 
with  pent-up  moisture.  And  he  thought,  also,  of 
what  preceded  this  experience.  Of  the  hardships 
and  strain  she  had  undergone ;  of  the  heart-breaking 
struggle  when  she  dragged  him  from  the  path  of  the 
landslide;  of  the  foot-sore  weary  way  down  to  the 
cabin;  and  of  the  midnight  operation,  when  she 
sewed  up  his  wound.  And  on  top  of  all  that,  while 
he  himself  lay  there  in  the  cabin  in  the  comfort  she 


Welcome  Water  323 

had  provided,  miserably  abandoning  the  battle, 
this  self-contained,  steady-eyed  girl  had  set  out 
alone  to  snatch  victory  from  defeat. 

She  told  him,  then,  the  details  of  that  venture 
some  journey  down  the  long  stretches  of  the  Ringo 
Trail  and  of  how  she  had  found  the  rangers  who 
subsequently  brought  him  out  to  the  railroad, 
whence  he  went  to  Portland  and  later,  at  Pha 
raoh's  urging,  to  Farewell.  And  as  Crete  pro 
gressed  with  her  story,  proud  and  happy  to  tell  it, 
the  grayness  of  the  waning  afternoon  seemed  to 
lighten. 

"  At  Salem, "  she  wound  up,  "I  intended  to  make 
my  own  filing,  thinking  that  no  one  but  the  person 
who  did  the  actual  posting  of  the  notice  at  the 
water  right  location  could  file.  But  they  told  me 
that  isn't  true.  If  there  is  an  affidavit  by  someone 
who  actually  saw  the  posting  done  they'll  accept 
the  filing  of  an  absentee.  As  I  saw  you  post  your 
notice  I  made  the  necessary  affidavit,  and  your 
own  filing,  giving  one  David  Kent  the  exclusive 
control  of  the  overflow  of  Lost  Lake,  was  received 
and  receipted  for.  And  here's  the  receipt. " 

A  little  out  of  breath  she  stopped  to  fumble  in 
her  skirt  pocket  for  the  precious  paper.  Holding  it 
out  to  David  she  added,  with  a  malicious  twinkle : 
"And  if  you're  going  back  East  please  turn  it  over 
to  me  ...  /  intend  to  stick  by  Farewell  and 
fight  things  out  to  a  finish. " 

''What's  that?"  This  seemed  to  astonish  the 
young  man  even  more  than  the  news  of  the 


324         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

successful  filing.  "Why,  you  said  you  were  going 
to  Seattle." 

"And  I  was  going  .  .  .  only  remember,  women 
are  forever  changing  their  minds.  The  very  min 
ute  I  had  that  receipt  and  knew  the  company 
crowd  was  beaten,  mine  changed.  To  go  now 
would  be  like  leaving  a  play  at  the  end  of  the  second 
act.  No  sir!  I  want  my  money's  worth. " 

"So  you  foresee  a  happy  ending?"  That  took 
him  back  to  himself.  For  the  settlers,  act  three, 
as  she  put  it,  might  well  be  Utopian,  but  for  him 
self  he  could  see  no  very  joyous  outcome. 

"Why  not?  As  Dad  would  say,  the  rest  is 
simple  as  shooting  fish.  With  that  extra  water  in 
Welcome  River,  and  the  right  to  it  exclusively 
yours,  it's  impossible  for  the  company  not  to 
accept  any  terms  you  lay  down." 

"Yes,  it  could  be  worked  out  readily  enough." 
But  he  said  it  wearily.  "There  wouldn't  even 
need  be  any  State  investigation,  for  there's  ample 
water  now  for  all  hands.  No  need  to  drag  Pen- 
noyer  in  ..." 

"But  he  doesn't  know  anything  about  it. " 

"Who  ..."  A  memory  of  what  he  had  seen 
at  the  Horse  Cave  checked  him  there,  and  his 
spirits  sank  still  further.  Likely  enough  Pennoyer 
did  not  know  about  the  crooked  fiowage  report. 
But  Failing  did.  And  what  of  her  and  the  man 
ager?  He  had  almost  forgotten  that. 

"Crete."  He  sounded  very  far  away.  "Fail 
ing  knows.  He  is  in  it  all.  Once  .  .  .  last  sum- 


Welcome  Water  325 

mer,  at  the  Horse  Cave,  I  blundered  on  you  .  .  . 
and  him.  I  couldn't  help  hearing  and  seeing 
a  little.  I'm  sorry.  I  couldn't  understand. 
Crete"  ...  he  paused,  seeking  words  to  express 
the  hunger  that  was  in  him  .  .  .  "you've  awak 
ened  me  as  no  one  ever  did  before  and  .  .  .  and, 
Crete,  I  love  you  .  .  .  desperately.  No,  don't 
speak  .  .  .  perhaps  I  should  not,  but  give  me 
a  chance.  I  understand  ...  at  least  I  try  to. 
I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  again.  I  know  what 
you  may  have  thought  that  time,  up  at  the 
ranger  cabin  .  .  .  but  it's  all  over  there.  She 
never  cared  for  me  .  .  .  God  knows  how  well  she 
showed  it!  I've  come  to  think  that  kind — the 
pampered  butterflies — don't  know  what  love  and 
loyalty  and  .  .  ."  he  checked  there,  but  his  eyes 
showed  his  belief  that  the  girl  before  him  did 
understand  these  things  as  he  would  have  them 
understood.  "Crete,  you  know  I'm  sincere  .  .  . 
you  know  that  this  time  I  know. " 

She  sat  ever  so  still  on  the  step  below  him. 
Her  head  was  low,  now,  and  she  was  sobbing. 
But  her  heart  was  glad.  She  did  know. 

"If  you  really  love  someone  else  I'll  ...  I'll 
never  speak  another  word  like  this.  If  it's 
Failing  ..." 

Then  she  saw,  and  the  realization  left  her 
breathless.  She  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  laugh. 

"Shall  I  quit  now,  once  and  for  all — just  as  I 
determined  to  do  half  an  hour  ago?  That  will 
make  it  easier  for  Failing. "  He  was  relentless. 


326         The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

She  turned  her  face  up  to  him,  then,  her  eyes 
starry  through  their  tears. 

"No,  no!  Don't  give  up.  Stay  and  make 
them  do  what's  right.  .  .  .  I'll  be  so  proud. "  At 
that  she  broke  down,  burying  her  head  in  her  arm, 
so  that  the  next  words,  wrung  from  the  very  depths 
of  her,  were  scarcely  audible. 

"I  hate  Jim  Failing!  It  was  just  .  .  .  just 
loneliness  and  .  .  .  and  the  bigness  of  him.  I 
guess  I  was  flattered  and  let  him  make  love  to  me 
...  a  little.  But  that  Sunday  in  the  Cave  .  .  . 
that  was  the  only  time  ...  it  ended  there. " 

1 '  You  love  someone  else,  then  ? ' '  His  voice  was 
level,  laden  with  torment. 

"Yes  .  .  .     I  love  .  .  .  someone  else. " 

Why,  why  was  he  so  blind  ? 

The  Bishop!  In  a  flash  the  thought  struck 
him.  And  why  not?  Where  could  there  be  a 
finer  or  a  fitter  man?  Despite  his  heartache  he 
was  glad,  or  tried  to  be. 

There  was  silence  then,  he  looking  out  to  the 
river  with  eyes  that  did  not  see,  across  the  sturdy 
little  shoulders  and  the  golden  dusty  hair. 

"I  hope  ...  I  hope  you'll  stay  .  .  .  and 
help." 

She  said  it  carefully,  as  if  she  had  thought  out- 
the  words  in  advance,  and  dared  not  trust  extem 
porizing. 

He  shook  himself. 

"I  will."  Wording  that  resolution  seemed  to 
lift  a  great  weight  from  him.  "I'll  stay,  if  you 


Welcome  Water  327 

will.  Is  it  a  bargain?"  He  was  standing  before 
her  now,  holding  out  his  hand.  "Shake. " 

Crete,  seeing  the  look  of  renewed  resolve,  gloried 
in  it.  There  was  sweetness  in  knowing  that  she 
had  kindled  it,  at  least,  even  if  he  could  not  compre 
hend  what  was  in  her  heart.  And  her  right  hand 
clasped  his,  manfully,  sealing  their  bargain. 

"Mother  of  Moses!"  he  ejaculated  wonderingly, 
more  to  himself  than  aloud,  and  retaining  that 
small,  strong  brown  hand.  "What  a  girl  you  are 
.  .  .  and  what  a  stupid  fool  I've  been. " 

Then  the  man's  fingers  tightened  and  this  time 
the  tears  were  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  down  at  her. 
And  the  question  he  asked  seemed  to  her  extra 
ordinary  beyond  understanding. 

"Are  you  certain  you  love  the  Bishop?" 

What  did  he  mean  ?  Her  mystification  was  com 
plete.  Amazed,  she  stared  at  him,  wordless.  And 
her  hand  still  lay  in  his. 

"What  .  .  .  what  do  you  mean?"  Finally 
she  could  speak. 

"Just  what  I  say. "  The  lines  of  his  face  were 
drawn.  "You  said  you  didn't  love  Failing  .  .  . 
but  that  you  loved  someone  else. " 

"Well?"  It  was  the  merest  whisper.  He 
failed  to  see  the  sudden  dancing  light  which  suf 
fused  the  blue  eyes,  because  they  were  lowered. 

"It  sort  of  came  over  me  that  it  must  be  the 
Bishop  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  I'm  glad  for  your  sake 
because  .  .  .  he's  a  very  fine  fellow,"  he  ended 
lamely,  and  tragically. 


328        The  Smiting  of  the  Rock 

I 

"  David, "  she  was  making  not  the  slightest 
effort  to  disengage  her  hand,  and  the  blue  eyes 
wavered  up  to  his,  "it  wasn't  the  Bishop. " 

The  dusty-golden  crown  swayed  nearer  him. 

"It  was  ...  it  is  ..." 

Crete  never  completed  that  sentence. 


THE  END 


